All Them Witches
by Ninja Violinist
Summary: In order to secretly prepare his students for the coming war Dumbledore hires the best warriors the supernatural world has to offer: Sam and Dean Winchester. But when the forces of Heaven and Hell follow the brothers to Hogwarts the Order of the Phoenix discovers that Voldemort’s return may only be the beginning of something truly terrible.
1. There's an Owl in the Bunker

**Note** : For the sake of this story the Harry Potter books (and movies) do not exist..

* * *

This story begins during Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix and between Supernatural episodes 8.13 and 8.14.

* * *

 **2012, United States**

* * *

 _The leviathan have been defeated. Dean Winchester and Castiel were blown into Purgatory by the death of Dick Roman. After a year, Dean escaped with the aid of the vampire, Benny. Only recently have they discovered that Castiel has also been pulled from the realm of monsters, but the Winchesters have no idea by whom and for what reason._

 _Crowley searches desperately for the angel tablet aided, unwillingly, by the demon known only as Meg. They believe they are closing in on its location, but Meg continues to lie in order to delay her inevitable execution. Sometimes while the knife slides across her skin she laughs. The place they're looking for is, in fact, beneath the ground in the land of Crowley's birth, a bit of irony that never fails to amuse her._

 _The demons have half of the demon tablet, but without the Prophet it has become little more than a fancifully carved rock. The other half is firmly in the hands of the Winchesters and said Prophet, Kevin Tran. The three now reside in the formerly abandoned Men of Letters bunker, a lodge granted by their late, anachronistic paternal grandfather. They work to translate a specific part: one that tells how to close the gates of Hell… forever._

* * *

 **2012, Great Britain**

* * *

 _Voldemort has returned, but no one will believe it._

 _Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, has found that fact maddening. He spent the first part of summer with the Dursleys, as usual, keeping a tense watch for signs that You-Know-Who had begun his campaign of terror._

 _The completely unexpected arrival of dementors changed everything. He was forced to break the Statute of Secrecy in order to save his loathsome cousin, an error which the Ministry of Magic appeared to take very seriously. Luckily for Harry, a large man (pure muscle, unlike the corpulence that was Uncle Vernon) with short black hair showed up on his doorstep that evening, a man who introduced himself as Mr. Ketch. The stranger quickly impressed upon the Dursleys his need for their absolute cooperation. Should they not comply… Mr. Ketch hadn't said much more but his smile and cold eyes conveyed everything._

 _Harry was driven to Number 12, Grimmauld Place, the ancient, hidden abode of the House of Black, and he spent the rest of the summer with his_ true _family. Although he arrived angry and frustrated over being isolated from both the general magical community and the newly reformed Order of the Phoenix, living with his friends and his godfather had been wonderful. His trial had ended without incident and with school just around the corner things were definitely looking up._

* * *

Dean didn't know how the hell the owl got into the bunker, but there it was.

He'd woken up that morning fully intending on whiling the hours away having a cup or two of coffee and perusing his laptop. The hunter brewed his drink in their kitchen ("their"! The Winchesters had a kitchen and it was actually _theirs_!) before heading into the library.

At first Dean didn't even notice the bird. He plunked down his computer and his mug, wondered when Sam had ordered from a taxidermist (and had gotten an _owl_ of all things), then did a double take when the supposedly stuffed animal blinked.

At that point the hunter froze, nonplussed, and a yawning Sam strolled into the room. "Did you make enough coffee for me?" He came to an astonished halt at seeing the large, tawny predator perched nonchalantly on the back of a chair. "What is _that_?"

"A bird."

"No shit, Dean," Sam said flatly. "Why is there a _bird_ in here?"

"Fuck if I know."

As if in answer to their question, the owl tapped its claws on an envelope it was clutching against the chair back. Dean edged forward until he was _just_ in arm's reach before yanking the paper away. The owl hooted indignantly.

Sam lifted his eyebrows at the wax seal and thick vellum. Then he noticed the address. "Sam and Dean Winchester. Men of Letters Bunker. Lebanon, Kansas, United States. How the hell…?"

Dean ripped open the letter. "Dunno." Silence descended as Dean read through the letter with his brother peering over his shoulder. After they were finished they spent several seconds looking back and forth disbelievingly between the owl and the heavily ornamented script. "You're shitting me," Dean finally said.

The owl blinked.

"They want us to _teach_? _Kids_?"

The owl hooted.

"Since when has there been a 'Magical Congress of the United States'?" Sam asked incredulously. "And they know about us?"

The owl preened.

"'Please send your reply via owl post'." The bird hooted again. "I guess that means him. Are we, you know, actually going to do this?"

"Do you want to?" asked Dean. "I mean, a whole _school_ full of witches? Since when does that sound like a good thing?"

Sam shrugged. "I say we go check it out at least. We got a week or so before the actual term starts." When his brother didn't reply, the hunter realized that the other man was occupied. "Dean, are you having a staring contest with the owl?"

"It was staring at _me_! I'm telling you, dude, the bird knows what we're saying. I say we get the silver. Might be a freaking shapeshifter or something." The owl puffed its feathers up and let out an angry warble. "Screw you, too, bird-brain," Dean snapped.

Exasperated, Sam wiped a hand down his face and shook his head. "I'm gonna go get a pen and tell them we're thinking about it. You go tell Kevin what's up."

"Think he'll wanna go?"

"Couldn't hurt to ask."

* * *

Kevin's answer to leaving the most supernaturally protected place that they knew of was a resounding "No." The young man got more coffee percolating, arranged his papers and their half of the demon tablet on one of the library tables, plugged in his headphones, and refused to acknowledge anything other than his work. When Kevin got in these moods it was best, in the Winchesters' opinion, to make sure there was a variety of easily prepared food available (not just hot dogs) and just let him be.

After learning of the bunker they'd immediately moved Kevin from the dilapidated ship that Garth had provided into one of the Men of Letters' many empty bedrooms. The young man made sure that the necessities of life were readily available before getting back to work. Having half a tablet, however, compounded the already arduous task, but the Prophet was undeterred. The King of Hell had both killed his girlfriend and traumatized his mother. Trapping, perhaps even _killing_ , the bastard was at the very top of Kevin Tran's to-do list.

The owl returned a few hours later. This note heartily invited them to visit the home of Jeffrey and Alice Park of Lebanon, Kansas, where temporary access to the British Floo Network (whatever that was) would be set up for their use. The couple's cell number was also included.

Their arrival point would be the fireplace ("Fireplace?" Dean asked. "Like a freaking secret entrance or something?") of the Leaky Cauldron. At that time a student and his parent would introduce them to their society. If they found the experience to their liking a staff member would join them to explain the position in further detail. This _Albus Dumbledore_ concluded by asking them to come with an open mind and to please leave any hunter paraphernalia at home.

Dean promptly ignored the request, loaded his gun with witch-killing bullets, put a spare clip in his pocket, and announced he was ready to go.

They gave the owl their positive reply, called the Parks, and drove into town. The couple ended up being smack dab in the middle of suburbia with a minivan in the driveway and "Welcome!" imprinted on the mat before their door.

Jeffrey Park, a completely normal looking thirty-something, answered the door. "Sam and Dean Winchester?" he asked in a quiet Cornish accent.

"That's us," Sam replied. Dean merely glowered suspiciously.

"Come on in." The witch stepped aside. "Mind the mess."

A variety of toddler-aged toys were scattered around their living room. From upstairs they could hear the delighted shrieks of whomever they belonged to along with Alice Park's coos. Jeffrey gave a nervous chuckle. "Our Aiden's a handful."

Dean softened immediately; he wasn't about to kill someone with a child in the house, witch or no witch. Sam, however, had noticed that a number of the toys were moving _on their own_.

A small parade of colorful animals began making their way over his left boot. When he knelt down Sam saw no wires, no battery packs, no antennas. This safari was moving independently of any power source, their smoothly joined limbs articulating just like their real life counterparts.

Sam looked up from and found Jeffrey had blanched. The hunter cleared his throat and attempted to give the man a reassuring smile. "Cute toys."

"Yes, um, well he's not old enough to know how to put them away yet. We're working on it." Jeffrey nervously swallowed. "You lot ready?"

It was obvious that the witch wanted the hunters out of his home, the sooner the better. "Where's this moo… loo… poo thing?" Dean asked.

"Floo," Jeffrey corrected. "Right here."

The brothers stared where he indicated, confused. They watched as Jeffrey walked over to the fireplace, took a pinch of powder from a small cookie jar on the mantle, and tossed it in. Virulently green flames sprung up almost immediately. "Please take a bit of Floo powder," the witch instructed, "toss it in, and clearly state your destination, 'The Leaky Cauldron'. Afterwards just step in."

Dean stared at him in disbelief. "You want us to walk into a fire."

"It's quite safe, I assure you."

Hesitantly, Dean stepped forward and put his hand in and around the flames. Nothing. No heat, no scorching, maybe a little tickle, but otherwise nothing. "Okay, not the weirdest thing we've seen but it's up there." The hunter opened the cookie jar, found green powder the same shade as the fire, and tossed a bit in. "The Leaky Cauldron," Dean said, enunciating every syllable with great aplomb, and stepped forward.

Rollercoasters were fun. Carnival rides were fun. _This was not_. Dean felt himself spinning with nauseating speed, glimpses of other living rooms flashing in front of his eyes. Before he could either scream an obscenity or vomit (he wasn't sure which would take precedence) the whirlwind was done. The elder Winchester landed hard on a stone floor, face first, and was immediately flattened. "I'm gonna throw up," Sam moaned.

"Well, don't do it on me!"

Sam slowly rolled off of his brother's back as a woman's voice greeted, "Good afternoon."

The pair looked up and found a lithe, blonde woman in a pantsuit and pearls, her hair done up in a tight bun. She gave them a tight smile and, in an extraordinarily aristocratic tone, said, "My name is Lady Bevell. This is my son, Jasper." A boy at her side nodded in acknowledgement. "Professor Dumbledore has requested that I introduce you to the magical world and to inform him afterwards about your decision."

"Uh, great," Sam said as the brothers picked themselves off the floor. "Why you?"

"You a witch?" Dean demanded.

"No," she replied. "My son is. And they prefer the term 'wizard' for males."

"Even magic people got PC issues."

Lady Bevell ignored both Sam's question and Dean's levity. "If you would, please." She lead the way from the dimly lit tavern to the back exit.

The Winchesters had just enough time to register an old fashioned decor, the lack of patrons, and the presence of the aged proprietor before they were outside. "My son is what they call 'Muggle-born'," continued Lady Bevell. "I have graciously taken Professor Dumbledore's advice and will be allowing him to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the institution where you two may be teaching."

"What's a 'Muggle'?" Sam wondered.

"A person without magic." The woman gestured forward. "Beyond this wall is Diagon Alley. Tom shall let us in."

As the Winchesters peered at the stones (hoping to find the secret lever or button or whatever it might be), Lady Bevell called for the bartender. The man shuffled out, a polished stick in one hand. Tom gave them all amicable smiles before peering at the wall. After a few moments the bartender tapped on a brick.

It wriggled for a moment. From the point of contact a small hole opened, one which swiftly became larger and larger until the street beyond was in view. Sam and Dean stepped forward, mouths open, as they beheld the sight before them.

The so-called "alley" was, in fact, a good sized avenue lined with shops that catered to every sort of magical paraphernalia imaginable. As the Winchesters followed Lady Bevell along the cobblestone proad they saw stores for wands, robes, books, cauldrons, and spell ingredients. There were also ones for owls, assorted pets ("Familiars?" Sam asked his brother, who shrugged), quills, and parchment. Over there was Quality Quidditch Supplies which had a group of teenagers at its window drooling over _brooms_ of all things. A few doors down was Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor where a score of witches and wizards, young and old, were enjoying ludicrously colored treats.

And the people! Most wore cloaks and robes over Medieval sort of clothing while others, particularly the young, wore tops and bottoms that could have come from any standard department store. Some were dressed like Lady Bevell but with some sort of witchy addition; cloaks, pointed hats, jewels that were just this side of old fashioned. A tall, haughty gentleman in a black suit (that rivaled those sported by the King of Hell) had a cloak around his shoulders and a cat on his head.

The multiculturalism was expected; the appearance of non-human creatures was not. Dean nearly collided with what he assumed was a walking pile of boxes and ended up being a tiny, large-eared something or other wearing a fancy towel. It quite clearly told him, "Pinkly is sorry, sir!" before hurrying after a woman who admonished the thing for falling behind.

"Did you—" Dean tried to ask the others. He discovered had moved on without him, eventually finding them waiting on the steps of the tallest building around, Gringott's Bank. Apparently he'd been staring at the Pinkly-thing for longer than he thought.

The hunter hurried over and Lady Bevell announced that they needed to exchange their money for wizard's currency. "I've only got dollars," Sam said, chagrined. "We didn't even think of getting euros or pounds."

"Not to worry," she replied. "I'm quite certain the goblins will be able to accommodate you."

"Did she say goblins?" Dean asked as they walked inside. "Oh."

The "goblins" apparently ran the bank. Everywhere they looked there were short, pointy-eared creatures with black eyes and unfriendly faces sporting either collared shirts and vests or smart, albeit old fashioned, business suits. They were tending to the financial needs of the magical populace; sitting at teller windows, stamping books, counting piles of coin. A few were weighing precious gems. One was telling the witch in front of him that in no uncertain terms would the Gringotts staff keep track of living creatures in her vault, no matter how rare or valuable.

The Winchesters, struck mute by the sight, let Lady Bevell lead the way to a goblin who sat under a sign stating "Muggle Currency Exchange". From her purse she withdrew a stack of euros and placed them on the counter. "I trust the exchange rate continues to follow market values."

"Of course, Lady Bevell," the goblin replied tartly. "Never let it be said that we goblins _cheat_ our clientele."

"Very good."

The brothers' eyes bulged as the creature began counting out piles of _gold_ and _silver_. Once the goblin was done, he swept the entire thing into a leather pouch and handed it over.

Lady Bevell stepped back and the Winchesters took her place. "Name?" the goblin demanded, a quill poised above his ledger.

"Uh," Sam stuttered, "Sam and Dean Winchester."

"Please place your currency upon the table."

The creature's rude tone belied the politeness of his words. Dean bristled, but Sam pulled his money clip and put forty dollars down. Without further ado, the goblin pulled up more stacks of gold and silver and counted them out. Sam received considerably less than Lady Bevell (who had put down the equivalent of a few hundred dollars) but it was still a nice stack. The younger Winchester received a similar, albeit smaller, pouch.

The goblin cleared his throat. "What?" Dean snapped.

"I'm not paying for your souvenirs," Sam said.

"Fine." His brother slapped down the same amount and received an identical pouch. "That it?"

"Unless you would like to open an account," the goblin replied. "Please be aware that we require a minimum of twenty galleons to excavate a vault for use."

Dean didn't know what galleons were, but he was certain that he didn't have _twenty_ of them. "No thanks."

Back on the street, Lady Bevell informed them that her son needed a wand. "I have been told that it is necessary for his… studies."

"Lead the way," Sam said genially.

They ended up in a cramped shop called "Ollivander's." A few tables and chairs sat near the windows, but the rest of the store was covered from floor to ceiling with thin, rectangular boxes, all precariously stacked in haphazardly constructed shelves. If there was rhyme or reason to how they were organized it wasn't readily ascertainable.

As Dean reached a hand out to try and open one of the mystery containers, a voice uttered, "Good afternoon."

All of them jumped. In the middle of the shop (where certainly nothing had been before) now stood a wispy-haired old man, his piercing gaze taking all of them in turn. "I assume it is this young gentleman who is here for a wand selection?" he asked Jasper.

The boy, who had until then remained silent, quietly replied, "Yes, sir."

"Very well." They watched the proprietor, presumably Ollivander, look here and there, the mysterious filing system apparently completely comprehensible to him. Eventually he slid a box from the middle of a stack. Surprisingly, nothing fell. "Maple and dragon heartstring, ten inches, very supple." He revealed the wand and held it out to the boy. "Go on, then," Ollivander urged. "Give it a whirl."

With shaking fingers, Jasper picked up the wand. Ollivander snatched it away a second later and grabbed another box (again without toppling his stock). "Unicorn hair and ebony, quite hardy, eight inches."

This time when Jasper picked up the wand it shot out of his hands and embedded into the shelf right next to Dean's head. "Holy shit!"

"No, no, not that one," Ollivander said thoughtfully, unperturbed by his guest's near death experience.

Lady Bevell, finally looking more bewildered than arrogant, watched the shopkeeper and her son try wand after wand after wand. Bored with the proceedings, Dean started poking at some of the more easily accessible boxes. He opened one up and cautiously wrapped his hand around its contents. Nothing happened, thankfully, meaning he could examine it at his leisure.

It was long and smooth, one end carved thicker than the other, with a tiny hilt apparently meant to indicate where it should be held. But while it was obvious that it had been constructed with care, the wood polished to a beautiful shine, it didn't seem to be anything extraordinary. Dean even flicked it up and down in an attempt to cause some sort of reaction.

Sam, who had been watching Jasper's selection, fascinated, finally noticed what his brother was doing. He snatched the wand away. "Stop messing with—"

To his great surprise a force of some sort erupted from the wand's tip and knocked over the stack of boxes that had piled up between Ollivander and Jasper. Everyone froze to stare at the culprit who, in turn, dropped the wand as if it burned.

"Well," Ollivander said, his voice laced with dark delight, "it appears that we have _two_ wands that require choosing today."

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Hello! I shouldn't be starting another fic but I really wanted to. So thbbt.

I realize the premise isn't anything new. The thing is, the fics that I adore that are following this formula seem to be in hiatus. Rather than irritate the authors with constant pleas to update I'm throwing my name into the goblet.

 **Story Notes** : Lady Bevell's son was a) younger in the show and b) nameless, but I figured… meh.

The Potter timeline has been moved up to coincide with the Supernatural universe. Therefore:

Harry was born in 1997.

The Potters died (and Voldemort defeated) in 1998.

Harry began attending Hogwarts in 2008. The current school year is 2012–2013.

All muggle technology has also been updated.

Anyways, thanks for reading! Hope you stick around!


	2. Of Wands and Winchesters

(4/24/2018) Apparently getting reviews makes me think I should actually work on this thing (hint hint nudge nudge). Anyways, thank you **rosie302, DreamFeathers,** mystery guest, **ngregory763** (hey, I know you!), and **Lovingh3art** for being my first reviewers! And Cheetos for everyone favoriting and following!

* * *

Sam sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wand in his hand.

Phoenix feather, hawthorn, thirteen and a half inches. Supple.

Jasper had taken home a wand with a core of dragon heartstring, cypress wood, nine inches in length. Rigid. It had fired into the air bursts of miniature blue and green fireworks that delighted the boy (and the Winchesters, but they weren't about to admit it). His had been chosen before Sam's as they had continued searching while the brothers had argued.

Sam theorized that, maybe, _just maybe_ , it was a lingering after effect of the demon blood still flowing through his veins. After all, most of the witches that they'd encountered had been slaves to demonic power, why should this world be any different? It was best to leave the incident forgotten and head on home.

Dean wasn't so sure. There were kids _everywhere_. A woman outside passed by holding a baby. The Parks had a toddler. What kind of demon hung around for the diapers and the drool? Besides, how helpful would it be if Sam could do a little wand waving and make a werewolf into a piñata? It couldn't hurt to try.

In the end Sam acquiesced, if only to prove his brother wrong. He was certain that every wand that he picked up would produce some sort of negative effect, thus confirming his suspicions about the affinity with his blood. Worried about the backlash, he asked Lady Bevell to take her son and go. Instead she calmly walked over to the chairs by the window and sat down. Her son followed, eyes wide in anticipation.

The first box held a black wand carved in a fancifully crooked manner. "Dragon heartstring and ebony," announced Ollivander. "Ten inches." Sam picked it up… and the wandmaker snatched it away. "No, no, that won't do. Here. Yew and unicorn hair, seven and a half inches."

This one actually let out a raspberry as soon as Sam grasped it. Both Jasper and Dean did their best to smother their giggles. "I don't think it likes you, Sammy," said the latter.

"Shut up."

A pile of boxes nearly as large as Jasper's grew at Sam's feet. Finally, Ollivander unveiled a pale wand, longer than most of the others, elegant in its simplicity. The hilt and handle were slightly darker, while its length boasted a strange set of whorls that did nothing to detract from its beauty.

Even before he'd touched it, Sam knew that _this_ wand wanted _him_. His hand hovered above the box, unwilling to take that last step. "Go on," urged Ollivander.

Sam picked it up and immediately the entire shop was blanketed in thick darkness, window and sunlight be damned. After a few seconds a brilliant white light erupted from the tip, sweeping the black away before slowly receding.

The look Ollivander had given him was completely unnerving.

"Well, shit," Dean uttered. When his brother lifted an eyebrow at him, the elder Winchester added, "Honestly? I didn't think anything was going to happen."

Irritated, Sam threw up his hands. "Then what was all that crap about waving this thing around and—agh!" Moving the wand in such a sudden manner had an unexpected effect; it had apparently taken its owner's movements to mean something and fired off a blast of power into Ollivander's shelves. Boxes and product tumbled down.

"I'm sorry," Sam cried. He thrust the stick back at the wandmaker. "Just… here. Take it back."

Instead of being upset, Ollivander appeared delighted. "My dear boy, that wand has chosen you. It is best you listen to it."

"But—"

"Thank you, Mr. Ollivander," Lady Bevell said. "I believe we would like to settle our bill."

"Looks like you've got a new buddy," Dean told his brother.

" _Great_ ," Sam moaned.

Lady Bevell and Dean gave Ollivander seven gold pieces each (apparently these were those mysterious galleons) and walked back towards the Leaky Cauldron. It was getting late, but the evening crowd was no less smaller than the daytime one. The only significant difference was the lack of young children.

The bar itself was now half full with witches and wizards all about partaking of stew and drink. Lady Bevell whirled around to face the brothers and asked, "Have you made your decision?"

"Have we?" Dean asked Sam.

"Let's talk to the other person, the staff member. At least so we know exactly what we're getting into."

"Very well," said Lady Bevell. She handed Sam a key. "This is to room seven on the second floor. Please wait in there."

Her duty completed, Lady Bevell directed her son back towards Diagon Alley. Dean lifted his eyebrows at her. "Where you going?"

"To finish our shopping, of course. When I planned this day I hadn't given leeway for… diversions. Come along, Jasper darling."

As the Bevell family headed out, Sam's hand pressed against the wand now resting on an inside jacket pocket. He and his brother had ordered the stew and two glasses of mead, ate quickly and quietly, then retired to room seven.

"You know," Dean said finally, "you keep staring at it like that and it might start gettin' the wrong idea."

Sam sighed. "Dean…"

"What? C'mon, so what's the big deal? It's not like 'cause some fancy stick took a liking to you means you're…" The elder Winchester waved his hand towards the window overlooking Diagon Alley. "You know, one of those guys."

"Actually," an distinguished voice declared as its owner opened the door to their room, "it means _precisely_ that. Sam Winchester, apparently you are a wizard."

The brothers stared at the woman, dumbfounded. She wasn't anywhere near as physically tall as either Winchester, but her demeanor conveyed a strength and power that had nothing to do with the magic at her disposal. Emerald green robes pinned over a austere black dress were topped off by a tall, pointed hat with long feathers that, despite its Halloween connotations, didn't look a bit ridiculous on her. An ebony walking cane completed the ensemble. "You're the staff member," Sam inferred.

"Correct. I am Minerva McGonagall, Professor of Transfiguration and Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts. According to Lady Bevell there was a sort of… revelation today."

"I'm not a wizard!" Sam cried.

McGonagall lifted an eyebrow as she shut the door. "A wand has decided that you are its wielder. I fail to see how denying it will change the facts."

Seeing how agonized his brother was becoming, Dean changed the subject. "So if you want us teaching at this school of yours, what'll we be doing?"

Dean had no doubt the woman knew exactly why he was interrupting, but she answered regardless. "We require a new instructor for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Our last one was… let us just say he wasn't who we expected him to be."

"And Defense Against the Dark Arts is…?"

McGonagall pulled her wand (which made Dean step back and Sam clutch his own wand tighter) and conjured… a stiff backed chair. She sat down regally and laid out the details of the offer.

"The job we are offering is twofold. Primarily you will be giving lessons on Muggle methods for dealing with the supernatural. I understand the two of you are quite skilled."

Dean snorted. "Couldn't you all, like, wave your sticks and make them into donuts or something?"

"Hardly." McGonagall's tone was harsh but her lips quirked upwards momentarily. "Although there are those of us who are skilled enough to battle creatures with magic alone, most are not. Therefore it is in our students' best interests to learn alternatives."

"Do you guys see monsters _that_ often?" Sam asked, his turmoil momentarily forgotten.

"Yes… and no. Many of the creatures we regularly interact with are, shall we say, innocuous. But just as wolves walk through your forests there are predators among us. You will, of course, be working a bit with our Care of Magical Creatures instructor during the year so that you understand which are which."

"What," Dean wondered, "like unicorns and dragons and crap like that?"

"Unicorns, possibly. Dragons, I should hope not."

Dean nudged his brother. "Dude, unicorns are _real_. That thing from that Pennywhistle joint doesn't count. Hey," he asked McGonagall, "are there magical killer clowns in your world? 'Cause Sammy here—"

"Shut up, Dean," Sam snapped, his heart leaping a beat at the reminder of his coulrophobia. He turned to the professor. "You said predators?"

She nodded. "Which brings me to the second part of your position." McGonagall's back stiffened and the grip on her cane tightened. "Last year, a very dark wizard arose, a man who poses a threat to not only our world, but yours as well."

Incredulous, Sam asked, "Just a man? Like… a human man?"

McGonagall's lips thinned. "Whether he retains his humanity is… debatable. Allow me to give you more details."

For the next hour, Professor McGonagall gave the Winchesters as much information as she could about Voldemort (a name she used once and then never again) and his Death Eaters. She described the years during which he rose to power, how he'd spread his sinister ideals of blood purity garnering support from like-minded individuals, and revealed his ruthless quest for immortality. Once he'd cemented his power base there came the murders, the disappearances, the _fear_ that swept through the magical populace that eventually had culminated in the eleven year long "Wizarding War."

"Hold up," Sam interjected. "If there was a _war_ for a over a decade wouldn't someone have noticed?"

McGonagall looked pointedly at the wand still in his hand. "There are ways of ensuring our secrets are held."

She went on to describe how He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was defeated by unknown means. The instrument had been a young boy, barely over a year old, named Harry Potter, who would be entering his fifth year at Hogwarts come the beginning of term. Part of the Winchesters' duty, McGonagall explained, would be to help keep him safe.

"Then why don't we just take the kid with us back to the bunker?" asked Dean.

She sighed. "It would raise too many questions if the famous Harry Potter suddenly disappeared."

Which brought her to the crux of their current difficulties. Harry and a schoolmate, Cedric Diggory, had been abducted at the end of the previous year. Potter had returned clutching Cedric's body with a wild tale of being forced to participate in the resurrection of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Most of the staff at Hogwarts, who had been present for the War, believed him and had quickly reformed their previous revolutionary group, the Order of the Phoenix. The Prime Minister, however, had not. Their government had spent the summer spreading libel regarding Harry's fanciful delusions and need for notoriety. It meant that the general magical populace was uninformed and unprepared for what was coming.

The professor sighed. "As much as we would like to hide Mr. Potter, for his safety if nothing else, we need him."

Sam's brow furrowed in anger. "You wanna prop him up, use him as a standard. A _kid_. He shouldn't be anywhere near all of this!"

McGonagall didn't deny his claim. "There is also the matter of Potter's education. His _magical_ education. On his own, Harry Potter does not stand a chance, and the Death Eaters will be waiting for the opportunity to kill him and win their master's favor. Hogwarts can not only prepare him, but it is also the safest place for him to be so long as Albus Dumbledore remains Headmaster."

The brothers glanced at one another. "What do you think?" Sam asked Dean.

"What about… you know…"

"I dunno. It's not like we can't do both. We're not even able to do anything until Kevin's done."

"Yeah, but if he does get something he's in Kansas and we're in freaking England."

"You'll be in Scotland, actually," McGonagall corrected, apparently unperturbed by the vague references in their conversation.

"Dude," Sam said, "he could, I dunno, FaceTime us or something."

"Hey," Dean asked the professor, "the school got free WiFi?"

"Normally magic and electricity," —the word fell uncomfortably off of her tongue— "do not mix." McGonagall's expression became sour. "After the requests of so many Muggle-borns and their parents, some of which have contributed a substantial number of galleons, we have managed to isolate a single room at Hogwarts that will allow a few computers," —another word that felt unnatural, "—to feed off of magic rather than electricity."

"So you guys got _magic_ WiFi."

"I suppose. The mechanics elude me, I'm afraid." She sniffed. "Personally I feel it is a waste of resources, but it allows our Muggle-born students to contact their parents and loved ones. Apparently owl post is too… conspicuous."

"Yeah, well, can't say it was really great finding a fricking bird sitting in the middle of our home."

"So," Sam said as he put his wand on the nightstand, "how would this work?"

* * *

Lady Bevell removed the stethoscope from the wall and placed it in her bag. No use continuing to listen; all the Winchesters wanted after those revelations were details about the wizarding world that she was already familiar with. It was rather funny, in her mind at least, that these magic folk were so narrow-minded in their thinking that they would ward their walls against spell based listening techniques and not even consider the effects of good old fashioned Muggle technology.

She hurried out of her room and down the tavern stairs, paid her reckoning, and walked onto Charing Cross Road. Her driver stood patiently beside the family town car. "A moment, Benjamin," she told him. He nodded.

Lady Bevell stepped several feet away and pulled out her phone. "They're here," she said as soon as someone picked up. "I've confirmed that they are indeed using the abandoned headquarters in the United States. I believe they are not an immediate threat to our operations, but it might be prudent to keep an eye on what they discover there."

"Henry Winchester's grandsons," ruminated the man on the other end. "I suppose they have a right to the place, after all."

"Indeed." Lady Bevell sighed worriedly. "Unfortunately, I have also confirmed that Tom Riddle has resurfaced. We need to convene and figure out how much we wish to be involved this time around."

"We could send Mr. Ketch or any of our other operatives and make a preemptive strike on Vold—."

"There is a reason we called him _Tom Riddle_."

"Surely you don't think that spell is still active?"

"Better safe than sorry."

"Regardless, we are considerably more well-equipped than we were twenty years ago. If we discover Riddle's whereabouts it may be prudent to take him out sooner rather than later."

"We need more information before we proceed with anything. Send someone to watch Malfoy manor and see if there is anyone with the will strong enough to keep an eye on Azkaban. I wish we had found the Black estate."

"Yes, the number of Death Eaters associated with that family… well, no use dwelling on the past. I'll let you know by tomorrow morning who would be suitable."

"Very good." The call ended.

When Lady Bevell returned to her car, Benjamin opened the door. Inside, she found Jasper flipping through one of his textbooks. "Are you certain that you do not wish to go to Kendricks Academy?" she asked her son.

"No, mother," he replied as the car began to move. "If I am a wizard then I would like to be properly educated as one. Besides, think of how I might be able to help you with your work with all the spells that might be at my disposal!"

Lady Bevell gave her son a gentle kiss on the head. "Just remember: whatever happens, no matter what you become, I will always love you."

"And I you, mother."

* * *

The Winchesters asked a few more questions, but it was obvious that they had already made up their minds. Professor McGonagall gave them precise dates and times for the beginning of term and left the room feeling better about Albus' unusual decision to hire these men. At the very least, it gave the thinly populated Order two more competent people to rely on. Besides, should they turn out to be troublesome, Dumbledore had authorized the use of the Obliviate charm, and then that would be that.

McGonagall apparated to outside of Hogsmeade and began making her way to the castle. She could have arrived closer, but she needed time to think.

What could it mean that Sam Winchester was _just_ now discovering he was a wizard? It was rare, but not unheard of, for magical ability to be discovered so late in life. However, most wizards and witches first manifested their power during moments of extreme stress, and according to the British Men of Letters these two men were no strangers to harrowing encounters. Something at some point _should_ have shown itself.

There was something more to these Winchesters than could be gleaned from one sitting, but regardless of her misgivings McGonagall trusted Dumbledore. Whatever it was that these men carried with them she was certain that he had the students' best interests in mind.

She just wasn't unsure if he had the _Winchester's_ best interests in mind.

* * *

They headed back to the bunker as soon as McGonagall had gone. Dean made sure Sam didn't forget his "stick" and the pair of them hit the Floo network back to the Park's home.

The family wasn't in. According to the note they'd left on the coffee table they had decided to take a day trip to Kansas City for some shopping. By the time they got back, the Winchesters would probably have returned and could they please lock up when they go? Oh, and the cookies in the plastic bag were theirs to take.

Obviously the Parks had decided that waiting around for hunters to come whirling back through their fireplace wasn't an ideal situation, especially with a small child. Neither Winchester took offense. Sam locked the door, Dean took a hesitant bite of a cookie and declared them the best cookies _ever_ , and they headed back to the bunker.

"Didn't ask a lot of questions about your stick," Dean said as he drove.

"Figured if we're going to be there anyways there'd be plenty of time. Besides, done all these years without magic. Why should I start now?"

"Well, if I thought you were a freak before…"

Sam jerked his gaze up at Dean, upset at the throwback to their days being torn apart by his demon blood, and found his brother doing his best to keep a straight face. He sighed in relief. Dean was just being an ass, just considering this new development as nothing more than another Sam Winchester abnormality. At least he hoped.

Truth be told, Dean's time in Purgatory had altered his outlook somewhat. The ends _could_ justify the means, particularly if the person or the monster retained a sense of morality. If his little brother (optimistic, well-intentioned Sammy) was now a witch then it was just another tool in their arsenal against the bad guys.

Dean could accept it. He could live with it. But the second that this so-called magical community showed any signs of demonic origin then he would pull Sam away and burn that fancy stick of his in holy oil.

The Impala came to a gentle stop in the bunker's garage. "So we're doin' this," Dean said as he shut his door.

"Might as well."

"Yeah, well, I don't like that we're leaving Baby here to gather dust."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You could give the keys to Kevin."

The thought of leaving his precious car to the jittery young man made Dean turn green. "Not happening."

"We'll figure it out."

"Looks like we got a lot of things to 'figure out'. Hey," Dean said thoughtfully as he paused on the staircase to the main floor, "you think Charlie could figure out the whole magic internet thing?"

Sam recalled the way McGonagall's face had twisted in distaste over the modern addition to her school. "We should wait a bit on that."

Upstairs, they found Kevin in the same state that they'd left him in, with the addition of two empty frozen burrito wrappers tossed carelessly onto the floor. The brothers glanced at one another, thankful that the young man had at least eaten while they were gone. Sam knelt down to pick up the garbage while Dean tossed the remaining cookies onto the demon tablet. "Dinner," he announced.

Kevin looked up after shoving the bag aside, irritated at the interruption. " _Thanks_."

"Everything okay?" asked Sam.

"No." The young Prophet paused. "Why do you have a stick in your pocket?"

"Apparently Sammy's got magic fingers," Dean announced gleefully.

"What?"

"Later," Sam said with a sigh. "We're going to take the job. You sure you don't want to go to the school with us?"

Kevin slowly shook his head. "I'm fine here."

"Okay, well, we've got a train in London to catch in about a week. We'll make sure the place is stocked before we go."

"Thanks." Conversation apparently over, Kevin put his earbuds back in, pulled out a cookie, and went back to his task.

The brothers headed for their rooms. "We should tell Cass where we're going," Dean said.

"Yeah, sure," Sam replied doubtfully. Their last encounter with the angel had been both unusual and worrisome. He'd claimed that Samandriel had been compromised, but…

As if reflecting on the same incident, Dean sighed. "I know, he's acting weird. But still." His face brightened. "Hey, I'm gonna see if there's a job we can do before we gotta catch that train. You in?"

"Sure." Might as well. It wouldn't take them an entire week to pack.

"Great. Hogwarts here we come!"

* * *

 **Author's Note** : I figured that the BMoL would have known about it all, seeing as how they're know-it-alls.

The war McGonagall talks about is technically the "First Wizarding War," but seeing as how the second hasn't even begun calling it the "first" didn't seem to make sense, at least to me.

The electronics and Hogwarts thing seems to be debatable. Colin Creevey had that camera, which apparently fed off of magic for power, so I sort of implied from there. Also figured Muggle-borns in 2012 at age 11 would be already into their phones and stuff. Mommy and daddy would want their preciouses to be able to contact home.

The bunker garage actually doesn't show up until "Slumber Party," 9.04. But Baby can't sit around outside while they're in Scotland, right?


	3. Chugging Along Towards Bethlehem

(4/28/2018) I wonder if I'm going too slow. By now those other lovely writers already had the boys settled in. Oh well, whatevs. Got to write some fun scenes anyways!

Thank you Mystery Guest, **missmeow1968** (hallo!), **Lovingh3art, ngregory763, Dream Feathers,** and **Samuel William Winchester** for the reviews! And everyone favoriting and following get licorice wands!

* * *

The Winchesters looked back and forth between platforms 9 and 10 at King's Cross Station and wondered if this had been one very, very elaborate hoax.

"You sure that's what it says?" Dean asked irritably.

"Platform 9 3/4," Sam read off of owl-delivered letter, "King's Cross Station."

Dean pointed up at one sign. "Nine." Then at another. "Ten. So what the fuck?"

Exhausted by travel, Sam leaned against the nearest pillar. "I dunno, man. I—shit!"

His brother, who had continued glaring at the signs as if they'd personally offended him, swiveled around and found one of Sam's feet protruding from a support tower. The rest of his body was _inside_ the brick, not a hair sticking out the other side. Fortunately, none of the other station patrons seemed to notice. When Dean got closer he realized why; it merely looked as if someone had discarded a boot on the station floor.

While Dean was pondering whether or not to yank his brother back into reality, Sam's foot slid forward and presumably joined the rest of his body. A moment later, Sam's arm shot out from the pillar, grabbed the strap of Dean's duffel, and pulled him in. Dean let out a curse and closed his eyes, bracing himself to be flattened against the brick. Instead he found himself stumbling forward a few steps onto a brand new platform that, impossibly, had been nowhere in sight a moment before.

The place was wreathed in steam and the cause was readily apparent; in contrast to the modern electric trains that were prominent on the other side of the support tower the gleaming red and black locomotive in front of them ran on old fashioned coal, or at least the magical equivalent. What the brothers deduced were the students and their parents crowded the area along with their luggage and pets. Dean sneezed violently when a cat perched on a trolley passed by and Sam admired a large, black dog.

One of the men that were in the group that the dog belonged to broke off from them and walked over. Even though his hair was peppered with gray he appeared to be around Dean's age. An odd number of scars were visible on his face and neck. Coupled with the haunted look deep in his eyes, it was obvious that the stranger had endured something deeply traumatic. "You must be the Winchesters," he said. "My name is Remus Lupin. Dumbledore has asked me to give you a bit of direction once you arrived."

"I'm Sam, that's Dean." They shook hands. "And, yeah, we're a little lost."

"I assure you there's nothing much more to do other than board the train and find an empty compartment. I'm here more to point out a few students."

"Harry Potter," Dean inferred.

Lupin nodded. "He's the lad with the glasses back there. Harry's a little… beleaguered right now so I would suggest not calling too much attention to him right away."

"That libel thing McGonagall told us about?" asked Sam.

"To begin with, yes."

As the other group hurried by, Lupin quickly pointed out Harry's best friends, the bushy-haired young woman named Hermione and the second to youngest of the red-headed children, Ron Weasley. There was also Fred and George, the twins (who Lupin advised the brothers keep an eye on), and Ginny, the family's only girl. Those adults were their parents, Molly and Arthur, and the man with the disfigured countenance and missing limbs was Alastor Moody.

In the midst of Lupin's continued explanation about the remainder of the prolific Weasley clan a loud whistle blew. "Uh oh. You had better get going."

"Crap," Sam cursed. The brothers hurried to the tracks and hopped into the first open door they could find just as the transport began to move.

It was lucky that the Winchesters were used to packing light; the aisles were completely full with excited children wearing their uniforms: trim dark pants or skirts with collared shirts. Some had v-neck sweaters in black, gray, or one of four colors that corresponded with their ties: red, green, blue, and yellow.

Sam and Des were _mostly_ certain of what these delineations meant. While the brothers had been in Pennsylvania dealing with the resurgence of a Nazi-based organization called the Thule, an owl had popped in to deliver a sheaf of letters detailing general aspects of the student body. The bird had landed directly onto the golem's shoulder. Instead of smashing it like they'd feared, the thing had actually lifted an enormous finger and gently rubbed its breast feathers in welcome. The owl, in turn, had hooted amicably.

It had been written by McGonagall and, just like the woman, had been both informative and to the point. In general, the students were between the ages of eleven and eighteen and were citizens of Great Britain. Their social status tended to lie along bloodlines, with those whose parents could both trace their genealogies unbroken to magical ancestors (purebloods) sitting at the top tier. Muggle-borns sat at the bottom with half-bloods a minor step above. McGonagall made it clear, however, that she had included this pseudo-caste system for historical reasons and was no longer of great importance. It was best to keep in mind, however, if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named succeeded then this question of blood purity may become a serious issue.

Upon arrival the students would be sorted into one of four houses that corresponded to the four colors the Winchesters spotted on many of the uniforms. Each house had its primary virtue: Gryffindors were brave, Ravenclaws were intelligent, Hufflepuffs were loyal, and Slytherins were cunning. It was, according to McGonagall, a way to put like-minded students together to foster friendships and cooperation, and to create an air of friendly competition.

As Sam looked back and forth for an empty compartment he noticed that the older students seemed to cluster with housemates. The air of "friendly competition" that McGonagall had touted appeared, in some cases, to be outright hostility, particularly between those in red and those in green. The blues were mostly neutral while the yellows had smiles for everyone.

They were nearly at the end of the train when they discovered two thinly populated compartments. The one on the left had a single girl inside reading a magazine upside down. The one on the right had a pair of female blues (Ravenclaws?) reading their textbooks.

After deliberating for a few moments, Dean slid open the doors on the right and said firmly, "Out."

The pair blinked at the Winchesters, startled by the rude demand, but stood regardless. "Are you new professors?" asked one.

"Yes," Sam said amiably.

"Americans?" asked the other.

"Is that a problem?"

"Not at all. Just curious." Without further ado the pair vacated the room.

Once the girls were gone, Dean claimed the forward facing seat and, after tossing his duffle up into the luggage shelf, sat down with a sigh. "Dude, is that kid across the way wearing bottle caps for a necklace?"

"I think so. She's got her wand behind her ear, too."

"Hey, where's _your_ stick?"

"Here," Sam replied as he patted his breast pocket.

"You try anything with it?"

"Like what?"

"I dunno. Turn Kevin into a frog or something."

" _Pretty_ sure you would've noticed if I'd done that."

The compartment across from the Winchesters eventually had three more occupants: Harry Potter, his friend Hermes ("Hermione, Dean," Sam sighed), the Weasley girl ("Jenny? Jeannie?" "Ginny"), and a homely young man who looked like he needed some time to grow into his features.

About thirty minutes in, Dean ended up surreptitiously observing the children across the aisle while Sam looked through _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_. The latter twirled his wand about absentmindedly as he read, resisting the temptation to say the incantations out loud.

They were interrupted first by a horrible squelching sound from the other room. Alarmed, Sam leapt to his feet. His head smacked on the protruding luggage rack at the same time he realized that his brother was snickering. Scowling, Sam asked, "What's so funny?"

"You banging your head for one," Dean said with a smirk. "The kid giving everyone a facial with his plant for another."

Sam looked at the other room and saw Harry and his friends liberally coated in dark green goo. As if on cue, an attractive Asian girl approached and opened the door. Harry appeared to be completely flabbergasted by her visit and she left soon afterwards.

Ginny pulled her wand and cleaned the mess with a flick, a gesture that Sam watched with great interest. He mimicked the motion but only succeeded in cracking the door window. "Will you quit screwing around with that thing?" Dean groused.

Sam put his wand away. "Sorry."

Their second interruption was far more pleasant. A lady pushing a cart came by shortly afterwards. "Care for a snack?" she asked after pushing the door open.

Dean looked absolutely delighted with the selection. His pouch was still untouched after their trip to Diagon Alley and he parted with a galleon in order to get one of everything. Sam settled for a chocolate frog and an apple. He took a hearty bite from the latter, but when he opened the former the candy leapt from the box and landed on his shirt.

Sam stared down at the brown frog now blinking back at him. "Dude," he said warily, "Get this thing off of me."

Unfortunately, Dean was too busy laughing. The frog made a leisurely climb up Sam's flannel and went straight into his pocket. Taking the move as an opportunity, Sam smacked his hand onto his shirt. When he dared to look inside the pocket he found nothing more than crumbled up pieces of chocolate, some of which were now imbedded into the fabric.

"You killed your new pet," Dean commiserated as he opened a box of jelly beans.

Sam pulled out the remnants of the frog's leg and peered at it. Far as he could tell it was nothing more than solid candy. "Must have been a spell of some kind."

His brother popped a bean into his mouth. "Dumb gimmick. Hm. These are pretty good."

Sam shrugged and ate the leg. "So's this."

"Well, at least—ugh!" Dean spit the next bean, a speckled brown one, onto the floor. "What the ever-loving fuck?"

"What?"

"Tasted like frigging dirt!"

"'Bernie Bott's Every Flavour Beans'," Sam read off the box. He grabbed a yellow one and prayed for lemon.

After a few more candies they discovered that "every flavor" really meant _every_ flavor. Sam discovered tomato, grapefruit, and what he suspected was fish. Dean ended up with apple, toffee, and bacon. The last one was so good that he grabbed a small towel from his duffel, emptied the entire box onto it, and claimed the rest of the delicious meat-flavored candies.

The other treats (a mixture of candy and Halloween themed pastries) sat forgotten as they engaged in a thorough investigation of Bernie Bott's hazardous product. They dared each other to eat the more luridly colored ones at first until the discovered that the more innocuous ones were far more dangerous. A red one might be cherry or chili, a dark yellow one might be banana or cheese. One colored a horrific beige and green ended up being _vomit_.

* * *

As raucous as the brothers got (each time one of them discovered something foul the other couldn't help howling with laughter), they inadvertently earned an audience. The compartment across the aisle had stopped in the midst of trading chocolate frog cards to watch the spectacle.

The shorter-haired one was gagging over what Neville recognized as the soap-flavored bean when Ron and Hermione finally arrived. They glanced over at the pair, eyebrows raised, as the longer-haired one was pointing and saying, "Ha ha! Told you!"

" _They're_ the new Defense Against the Arts Professors?" Hermione asked incredulously.

"How do you know that?" Harry wondered.

"All the other prefects are talking about them," she said as Ron plopped down and began wolfing down a chocolate frog. "They're Americans and they're taking over the DADA job. That's as much as anyone knows."

Ginny looked over, her chin in her hand. "They're quite good looking."

"Aren't they?" Hermione said dreamily.

"They couldn't be any worse than _Lockhart_ ," Harry reflected, putting an extra emphasis on their second-year Defense professor's name.

Hermione flushed and ignored the implications. "Hopefully they'll be as good as Lupin."

"Or at least as knowledgeable as Moody," Ron added. "Or… Crouch? How're we even supposed to refer to him now?"

"We shouldn't," Harry told him sharply, his insides churning at the memory of his last encounter with the now debilitated Death Eater. Minister Cornelius Fudge's quick decision, and near-immediate execution, to sentence Barty Crouch, Jr. to the Dementor's Kiss still had the power to revolt Harry. Perhaps the man had truly been irredeemable, but now there was no way to know for certain. All that was left was an empty husk incapable of doing anything other than breathe.

Hermione heard the bite in Harry's words before Ron finished ruminating on their former professor. Before her fellow Gryffindor prefect could inadvertently cause any more harm she abruptly launched into an explanation over what they'd learned about the Hogwarts' prefect policies and who had been selected from their year.

The fact that Draco Malfoy was representing Slytherin came to no one's surprise, but Luna's reaction to Ron's quip about making Goyle write "I must not look like a baboon's backside" as punishment did startle them all. She fell into hysterics, which dumbfounded Ron, which in turn caused the rest of them to also fall into hysterics. The girl was so tickled by his joke that she dropped the magazine she'd been reading upside down, The Quibbler. Its cover boasted a rather poorly done drawing of Fudge abusing a goblin along with the titles of several of its articles. One touted the name Sirius Black, much to Harry's surprise.

It ended up being a lot of nonsense, at least to everyone's opinion other than Luna's who, it turned out, was the daughter of the magazine's publisher. She was just returning to her reading in a huff (Hermione having accidentally insulted Luna's father's work) when Draco Malfoy and his cronies swept the door open.

* * *

The jelly beans had been consumed with the tally leaning towards Dean in terms of who had consumed the greatest quantity of disgusting flavors. "Never again," he announced as he threw the box to the floor. "Who the hell thinks it's a good idea to make something that tastes like boogers?"

To cleanse their palates they each munched on a cake. Dean's was shaped like a pumpkin and Sam's like a cauldron. Both were delicious, thankfully, with no hidden flavors. After that, Sam finished his apple while Dean tasted a few more treats including the infamous chocolate frog. He bit the thing in half right away, effectively "killing" it and rendering it inanimate.

Evening was well on its way when a commotion from the hallway drew their attention. A blonde boy with two gargoyles as attendants was speaking into Harry Potter's compartment. Whatever it was that the newcomer was saying had most of the other room's occupants furious or annoyed (the bottle cap girl was hidden behind her magazine again). Hermione quite clearly, and loudly, snapped, "Shut up, Malfoy," giving the Winchesters a signal that it was time to intervene.

"Hey!" Dean barked as he violently slid open their compartment door. The windows quivered in protest. "What's going on here?"

The blonde boy turned around, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "Who are you?"

"A teacher," Sam said darkly over his brother's shoulder.

"What sort of teacher?"

"Does it matter? Leave them alone."

Dean's eyes narrowed as the Malfoy boy scanned him and his brother from head to toe. He lingered on their worn jean cuffs and faded shirts and apparently came to the conclusion that the Winchesters were beneath him. "You tramps sneak onto the wrong train? What sort of squalor were you two dragged out of?" The kid's cronies let out a few guffaws.

With a feral smirk, Dean folded his arms and quietly said, "The kind that makes me think it'd be real funny to see someone finishing their train ride to school hangin' for dear life off the caboose."

Malfoy paled. Without another word, he and his goons turned and scurried from the car. "Really, Dean?" Sam said irritably. "Threatening kids?"

"I wasn't gonna do nothing!" his brother replied.

Much to Sam's chagrin, Ron began applauding. "Bloody brilliant that was. Right up there with the ferret!"

"Ferret?" Sam repeated.

"It's a terribly long story," Hermione said quickly. "I'm sorry for disturbing you, professors, and I'm sorry for leaving so abruptly but we need to get ready to help with the first years."

"Prefect duties, you know," Ron said proudly.

"Uh, yeah," Sam replied. "Sure. We're almost there?"

The pair pinned elaborate gold badges on their chests. "Yes," said Hermione as the train began to slow. "Come on, Ron. Hurry up!" The boy had been admiring his reflection, moving the badge up and down to see what looked best, and protested loudly when the girl pulled him away.

"It was nice to meet you all," Sam told the children. "See you soon, I think."

"Same," Dean tacked on.

"Goodbye, professors," the remaining students said.

Sam slid their compartment door closed. "They're polite at least."

"Yeah, well, just wait till we gotta deal with more than a dozen at the same time. I'm gonna remember that Malfoy dick."

"Hard to forget."

The train came to a gradual stop, rolling into a platform that was shrouded in fog. Light was scarce, the lamps gamely trying to shine through the thick air. A woman called, "First years line up over here, please! All first years to me!" and the smallest children headed for her. The rest meandered towards a line of carriages.

The Winchesters watched the procession of either eager or frightened eleven-year-olds clamber into boats before joining the older students. They came to an astonished halt once they got close enough. "What the hell are those?" Dean asked.

"I have no freaking clue."

* * *

Harry was still staring at the odd horse-like creatures, bewildered and troubled, when he heard the two American professors arguing. "Dude, it's a freaking Clash of the Titans pegasus," the slightly shorter one said, much to Harry's surprise.

"What, from Hell? Look at that thing!"

"You think Crowley's got Hellhounds _and_ Hell-ponies? C'mon."

"It's got _fangs_ , Dean."

"Dare you to touch it."

" _You_ touch it."

"Chicken. Bok, bok, bok!"

"What are you, five?"

The two men continued their good-natured bickering in a way that could Harry could have easily heard coming from the mouths of any of the Weasley siblings. It was comforting to know that there were those who could see the creatures other than himself and Luna Lovegood; her reassurances hadn't done much to ease his nerves.

"Oi, mate!" Ron called. "Let's go!"

Harry climbed into the carriage and joined his friends. So far he was leaning towards liking the new professors, if only because of this shared experience and the shorter one's threat against Malfoy. Defense Against the Dark Arts this year was going to be, if nothing else, very interesting.

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Of course the Winchesters could see thestrals. Kinda depressing when you think about it.


	4. Pointy Hats and Pink Things

(5/7/2018) I am beyond tickled that when I write out Supernatural fictional names the spellchecker thinks I'm nuts, but when I write out Harry Potter fictional names it goes, "Yeah. That's legit."

Thank you **eivomlive, Muffing, Lovingh3art,** Mystery Guest Number One, **missmeow1968, ngregory763, Samuel William Winchester, DreamFeathers, Sailor Dragonball 87** , and Mystery Guest Number Two for the reviews! And everyone favoriting and following get TROLL IN THE DUNGEON! …Thought you ought to know.

* * *

The castle that was coming into view was nothing less than spectacular.

It rose into the sky like some sort of gothic fantasy, innumerable pointed towers piercing the clouds, with the warm orange glow of naturally derived light (as opposed to the harsh whiteness of fluorescents) filtering out every open window. An expansive stone bridge reached out to welcome them into its doors, wide enough that Dean was sure two Impalas could have easily driven through side by side. Down below shined the waters of a lake where the last of the first-years' boats were disappearing into some hidden entrance.

They were let out into a large courtyard. Excited students piled from their carriages with talk about their upcoming classes and their summer vacation. Only a handful of them (including Harry Potter and his plant-owning friend from the train), paid attention to what the Winchesters had continued to call "Hell-ponies." The creatures themselves lazily stood about, occasionally pawing the ground and shaking their manes, waiting for their handlers just like any normal horse.

"Guess they're tame," Sam said.

Dean quickly grabbed a passing older boy wearing yellow and asked, "Hey, what're those?"

"What are what, sir?"

"Those!" Dean exclaimed as he pointed straight at a Hell-pony head. "The things pulling the carriages?"

The Hufflepuff looked at him like he'd gone mad. "Sir, they pull themselves."

"What? No they don't!" Dean pulled the startled student forward until the kid's face was practically inside the horse's mouth. "See?"

"See what, sir?"

"That'll do, Mr. Finch-Fletchley," came a man's disdainful drawl.

"Yes, Professor Snape."

As soon as Dean opened his hand the boy scurried to the double doors. The hunter pointed at the creatures again. "Tell me _you_ can see the damn things."

Professor Snape, a dark-haired, black-robed, middle-aged man with a hooked nose and a sallow countenance, lifted one disdainful eyebrow and asked, "You can?"

Dean looked over at his brother. "I'm going insane."

"No, I see them, too," Sam said warily.

The professor walked over and unerringly reached out to place his hand on the Hell-pony's nose. "These are thestrals," Snape said quietly, his eyes reflecting what might have been regret. "They are only visible by those who have seen death."

"Oh," Dean simply stated. If that was the case, then it was no wonder that he and his brother could see the things. The fact that some of the students could also see them made him grimace sympathetically.

The professor gave the thestral a rub and turned to the Winchesters. "I am the Potions Master, Severus Snape. Professor Dumbledore has asked me to direct you to the Great Hall."

"Where is he?" Sam wondered.

"Yeah," Dean added irritably. "It's like trying to get to the freaking Great and Powerful Oz."

"He'll be there," Snape said smoothly. "He assumed that you might want to partake of the welcoming feast. It would be most beneficial for the students to know what their new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professors _look like_ prior to their first series of classes."

Dean bristled at the man's contemptuous tone. "Yeah, well, at least we're better looking than—oof!"

"Sorry," Sam said to Snape as he withdrew his elbow. "My brother has problems keeping his thoughts to himself."

The Potions Master pressed his lips together and turned. His black cloak and robes billowed as he moved. "Think he practices that?" Dean whispered.

"Can you not antagonize our coworkers before we've even started working?"

"He's a dick."

"We just met the man and you tried to insult him."

"If he didn't wanna be insulted then he shouldn't be a dick."

They followed Professor Snape not to the main entrance to the Hall (where the older students were going) but to a side room with a fireplace and a great many paintings hanging upon the wall. A door on the other side of the room was invitingly open and Snape disappeared through it without checking to see if his charges had followed.

Sam followed resolutely but Dean paused. He could have sworn that the picture of a wizard stroking a cat on his lap had been picking his nose. However, the man's hand was now sitting peacefully on his pet. The hunter glanced suspiciously back and forth at the other paintings and looked for discrepancies. He decided that there must be some trick to it. There was no way that every single one of those men and women had their eyes pointed straight at _him_.

"Dean?" Sam called.

"Yeah, coming."

The first thing Dean saw in the Great Hall was a long table on a platform filled with other teachers (including Professor Dick). Hundreds of candles were suspended from the ceiling, bobbing a bit up and down like they weren't in danger of falling on the heads of the Hall's occupants. Four long tables that were nearly full of students lined the floor beneath banners that declared their houses. Up above was some kind of projection of the foggy weather from outside which, taking in the fact that there were large, narrow windows behind the teacher's table, seemed a little redundant.

Most of the professors were just like the brothers had expected after meeting McGonagall: older men and women wearing a combination of robes, dresses, or cloaks in austere colors (except for woman in head to toe pink). A few had pointed hats. One man, however, completely eschewed the norm, his outfit bright and purple and spangled, and was currently making his way towards the pair of them. A smile was under his long, silver beard and he had a hand outstretched in welcome. "Ah, Sam and Dean Winchester! A pleasure. I am Albus Dumbledore."

"Of course you are," Dean muttered as he shook the Headmaster's hand.

Sam resisted elbowing his brother again and repeated the gesture. "Thank you for letting us come."

"No, I thank you for being good enough to take the position. We will talk in length after the welcoming feast, so please enjoy."

They sat where he indicated. As soon as Dumbledore was out of earshot, Dean leaned over to his brother and whispered, "Dude, that's Ian McKellen."

"Why would _Ian McKellen_ be at a kid's school for magic?"

"I dunno. Maybe the whole Gandalf thing wasn't an act."

"Dean, don't be an idiot."

" _You're_ the idiot."

Sam rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to continue their parley; the double doors had opened and the older students were quieting. He didn't want to miss whatever it was that was about to occur.

A stern McGonagall lead the youngest children down the middle aisle while carrying a stool and a ratty pointed hat. She placed it down carefully in front of the professors' table and stepped back. A rip abruptly opened towards the brim of the hat…

 _…And the thing began to sing_.

The Winchesters listened, nonplussed, as the hat spun the story of the four Hogwarts founders, their initial friendship and cooperation, and the degradation of their partnership. Their quarrel bled into the student populace and the ensuing chaos had nearly ended the school. The conflict only began to subside when Salazar Slytherin departed.

The hat then bemoaned its duty to separate the students into their houses before concluding with an ominous lyric:

 _Oh, know the perils, read the signs,  
The warning history shows,  
For our Hogwarts is in danger  
From external, deadly foes  
And we must unite inside her  
Or we'll crumble from within.  
I have told you, I have warned you…  
Let the Sorting now begin._

The students applauded, though a good number of them were whispering and muttering at the same time. McGonagall, who had remained standing next to the musical headgear, regally cast about a scorching glare and the noise died. Sam and Dean, still flabbergasted over both the hat's talents and its song's dark tone, jumped when she abruptly called, "Abercrombie, Euan."

The brothers watched as a terrified little boy walked up, lifted the hat, sat on the stool, and carefully nestled the thing on top of its head. After a long, tense moment the rip in the brim opened once again and announced, loudly, "GRYFFINDOR!"

"Oh," Sam said quietly amidst the red table's eager applause. "That's what it meant."

Dean nudged him with his elbow. "Wonder what it'd say about you."

"Bellerforth, Georgina" was taking her turn. "C'mon," Sam scoffed. "I'm not a student."

The hat cried, "RAVENCLAW!" as Dean said, "Tell me you ain't curious."

Sam shrugged as another student took his turn. He _was_ curious, but he was also deeply apprehensive. What did the hat take into consideration when choosing? Was it personality? If so, then more likely than not Sam felt himself leaning towards either Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. The bookish tendencies of the former were right up his alley, but the overall demeanor of the latter was greatly appealing. Or was it history? If that were the case he might be a Gryffindor or Slytherin. Certainly Sam felt that, as a hunter, he had shown no lack of bravery, but he'd never backed away from ambitious endeavors. Why else would he have risked losing his family for Stanford? For that matter, why else would he have fallen into Ruby's manipulative clutches?

By the time he'd finished ruminating, "Zellar, Rose" was making her way to the Hufflepuff table and McGonagall was carting the hat and its perch to the fireplace room. Dumbledore rose from his seat and announced, "To our newcomers, welcome! To our old hands, welcome back! There is a time for speech making, but this is not it. Tuck in!"

Abruptly food appeared in front of them, the tables groaning slightly under the sudden weight. "Holy shit," Dean said appreciatively as he reached in front of his brother for a small pie.

"Hey!" Sam exclaimed as Dean stuck his fork in.

"Oh my God," moaned his brother. "It's a freaking pie with meat."

"Steak and kidney, to be precise!" explained the portly witch at Dean's other side. She stuck her hand out at Sam (as Dean was too busy stuffing his face). "Professor Pomona Sprout. Herbology."

"Sam Winchester. The pig here is Dean."

"Dumbledore told us he was hiring a few Americans for the job. I'm not surprised that he had to go so far to find a willing candidate."

"Why's that?"

"Well, we've have a bad run of it for, oh, over twenty years now. For some reason the professors just either don't want to stay or…"

"Or?" Dean managed to insert through a mouthful of crust.

"Well, I'm certain the two of you are quite capable individuals. No need to worry."

Which, of course, caused both brothers to do just that. Unaware of their sudden apprehension, Professor Sprout turned to her other neighbor who was asking for a bit of gossip. Sam pushed away his plate, his appetite gone, while Dean stared morosely at the remains of his pie. "Ah, hell with it," he finally said and resumed eating.

"Maybe we should have looked harder into the Men of Letters archives," Sam muttered, "or at least see if there was another branch out here. They couldn't have been just in the U.S."

Dean was busy with his last forkful. "Wha' f'r?"

"Doesn't what she said kind of worry you? At all?"

"No. Maybe a little." The dull orange liquid ended up being pumpkin juice. Dean pushed his glass at Sam. "All yours. Look," he continued when the younger brother didn't react, "if there's shit going down then that's even more of a reason for us to stick it out." He nudged a bowl of roast potatoes and carrots at Sam. "Rabbit food. Your favorite."

Sam sighed. He recognized the methodology behind the persistent offerings of food. It was the same technique Dean had used when they were children whenever Sam had insisted, despite all logic to the contrary, that he wasn't hungry; until he started eating, big brother wasn't going to leave him alone. With another sigh, Sam scooped up some of the vegetables, picked a pork chop from another dish, and dug in.

* * *

In between the bickering between Ron and Hermione, Harry kept an eye on the three additions to the staff table. Umbridge seemed to be just as vile as she had been back at the Ministry Headquarters; the professors on either side of her mouthed polite responses to her attempts to converse but otherwise refused to engage her further. Being snubbed didn't seem to curb Umbridge in the slightest; even over the noise of the Hall Harry could hear the vestiges of her squealing tone.

There wasn't much to the American professors at first. They were wearing Muggle clothing, but other than that they could have been just two new Defense Against the Arts teachers that the students could look forward to bidding farewell at the end of the year. Sure, they'd seen the thestrals, but since they were adults that no longer seemed as significant.

Then they started eating.

At first it was just the shorter-haired one who dug into a pie almost right after it had appeared. Eventually he coaxed the other to join in. The pair ate with a single-minded intensity that Harry recognized all too well. It was the voraciousness of someone who wasn't used to having a substantial meal, of someone who wasn't sure when the next one would come. Only a person who was used to starvation, to _want_ , would eat like they did.

Ron noticed what Harry had been staring at and chortled. "They can really put it away."

Harry feigned a chuckle and made an agreeable noise. While Ron resumed his own devastation of the food in front of them, Hermione looked back and forth between the new professors and Harry sympathetically. "I suppose it's what they're used to," she said quietly.

Grateful for her understanding, Harry gave her a slight smile and picked up a treacle tart. The more he saw of these men the more he felt a sort of kinship with them. With Dumbledore continuing to pretend that Harry didn't exist, perhaps the new professors could provide the answers to defeating Voldemort that he so desperately wanted to find.

* * *

The dining was done, the carnage disappearing in the same, unassuming manner that it had appeared, and, as Dumbledore stood, the noise in the Hall died down. He began his speech with what sounded like the standard warnings against wandering into the forest and what objects were forbidden in the corridors (the full list available on the office door of a Mr. Filch). "We have had three changes in staff this year," the Headmaster continued. "We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professors Winchester and Winchester, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers."

Polite applause came from the students, but most of them were staring at the brothers curiously. Some of the female students (and a few of the male) giggled behind their hands and cast coy looks at the instructor's table. Sam swallowed nervously and hoped that he was just reading too far into what those gestures meant.

With a bit of supposedly unfeigned enthusiasm, Dumbledore said, "We would also like to introduce Miss Umbridge of the Ministry or Magic who will be filling in the newly created position of Head of Curriculum." He clapped quite cheerfully for the woman, though barely anyone else followed his lead. Harry Potter, however, appeared to be both disgusted and horrified while Hermione narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"Tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the—"

" _Hem hem_."

The look of surprise on Dumbledore's face lasted only a moment. Then he sat down as if he'd expected the interruption and would like nothing better than to listen to what the Umbridge woman had to say. Sam and Dean were among the professors who weren't bothering to hide their astonishment; the former looking around at the others for guidance and the latter grabbing a butter knife just in case the pink thing turned out to be a monster.

"Thank you, Headmaster, for those kind words of welcome," sang Umbridge in a high-pitched voice that grated on the brothers' nerves. She looked about and, in a tone more suitable to a group of preschoolers or kindergartners, promptly hoped that they would all be "very good friends."

"What the fuck?" Dean wondered, then winced. The acoustics in the Hall were apparently better than he estimated; though he tried to pitch his tone soft enough so only Sam would hear he ended up projecting down to the students at the front of the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, all of whom looked scandalized (the exceptions being Fred and George who looked absolutely delighted).

Umbridge hadn't noticed. Her attention was completely on the bland speech she was current inflicting upon the students. "Progress for progress' sake must be discouraged," the woman was saying, "for our tried and tested traditions require no tinkering."

Sam frowned darkly as did many of the other teachers. The students, however, quickly zoned out save for several Ravenclaws, a few Slytherins, Hermione, and several of the older children who were listening with furrowed brows. It was obvious, at least to Sam, that the Ministry of Magic had, for whatever reason, decided to be more involved with the institution and was interested in curbing any changes that might be detrimental to its power. Maybe that included hiring a pair of American hunters to teach their progeny, which meant that the Winchesters might very well be headed back to the bunker a lot sooner than they thought.

Sam glanced at Dean, worried that his brother might have fallen asleep (as most of the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs seemed to be in danger of doing), and was surprised to find him looking at Umbridge the same way he eyed a potential hunting target. "Don't," Sam whispered.

"There's something off about her."

"Like what?"

"I dunno."

Dean's tendency to see threats everywhere had grown exponentially since his exit from Purgatory, with Castiel's suspicious demeanor doing nothing to curb the issue. Thankfully, before Dean could make a scene, Umbridge's speech came to a end with a long-winded sentence that made Sam feel as if he were back in Stanford stuck in a lecture hall listening to an unimaginative doctoral candidate. "Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited."

Umbridge sat amidst scattered, polite applause, and Dumbledore stood back up to resume his own interrupted announcements. The familiarity of his voice jolted the students (mostly) awake and the feast came to a close. Prefects such as Hermione and Ron began ushering the first-year students from the Hall as the older children meandered their way out.

The professors were mostly quiet, most everyone other than Umbridge exchanging apprehensive looks. They drifted back into the room with the portraits and the fireplace as Umbridge, clearly clueless as to the others' mood, said, "Well! I am certainly happy to have gotten the students up to speed on the Ministry's stance for this upcoming year. I trust, Professor Dumbledore, that you are in agreement?"

"Oh, I most certainly heard what you intended," he replied mildly.

"Very good!" She turned towards the Winchesters. "Now, I understand that you two gentleman are the ones who—" Umbridge cut off abruptly as Dean tossed a handful of salt at her face with one hand and splashed holy water on her from a flask in the other. Other than being seasoned and wet, however, the woman was unaffected.

"Oh," Dean said sheepishly. Sam closed his eyes and took in a deep, calming breath, but a few of the other professors appeared to be doing their best to try and hide snickers.

"What the _devil_ do you mean by this?" Umbridge shrieked. She continued to harangue Dean as most of the others drifted out of the room. A disdainful McGonagall, a bemused Dumbledore, and a greatly entertained Snape remained to listen. No one seemed inclined to interrupt, not even Dean (who was actually taking the opportunity of the pink thing's open maw to check for fangs and other anomalies).

Out of the corner of his eye Sam spotted the hat. As everyone else was preoccupied (Umbridge was currently expounding on the lackluster quality control in regards to teacher appointments), he decided to quench his curiosity. Before anyone could notice, Sam slowly and quietly stepped to the stool, grabbed the careworn headgear, and jammed it on his head.

"Interesting," said a voice in Sam's ear. "I've never quite met a mind like yours. You're far older than most of the new students I've seen."

"I'm not a student," Sam retorted quietly.

"Are you not? If you insist." The hat seemed deeply skeptical about Sam's denial. "I suppose you wish to know where I would sort you, yes?"

"Please."

"Hmm. Very difficult. Even more difficult than Harry Potter. A good deal of cunning, and no lack of bravery. Intelligent, very intelligent, and quite loyal to your brother and your friends. But you aren't quite selfishly ambitious enough for Slytherin; not as blindingly headstrong as Gryffindor; and you lack the placidity of a Hufflepuff. As you are now, Samuel Winchester, I would put you in Ravenclaw."

"Wait, what do you mean 'as I am now'?"

"Why, there is much in you ripe for change. You are—"

Sam found his hair flying up and then down as someone swiped the hat from his head. "Dude," Dean said, amused, "I wish my phone worked in here. You looked totally stupid."

"I'm not done—oh." The room was nearly empty save for the brothers and Professor Dumbledore. "Sorry."

The Headmaster smiled. "Alas, curiosity gets the best of us sometimes. Let us meet in my office for a bit before you retire."

"Lead the way."

* * *

 **Author's Note** : I had to dig around to figure out a new position for Umbridge. From the websites of a couple of British schools it looks like the Head of Curriculum position is a thing. Maybe?


	5. Is This Heaven or Hell?

(5/17/2018) SEASON FINALE IN AN HOUR! SEASON FINALE IN AN HOUR! At least where I'm at.

I threw myself into this fic with my eyes closed. Kind of didn't know what I was signing myself up for. But every kind word you leave helps!

Thank you **Sailor Dragonball 87, Lovingh3art, booklifeforlife, ngregory763** , Mystery Guest, **Samuel William Winchester, DreamFeathers, ShadowDancer1629,** and **WhymustIpickaname** (I don't know!) for the reviews! And everyone favoriting and following get Pygmy Puffs!

* * *

Meg was bored.

Her history as a demon was nothing less than illustrious. She'd apprenticed under Alastair, Hell's Grand Torturer. Azazel, a Prince of Hell, was her adopted father. Lucifer, the greatest of the archangels, was her liege.

In her many years of existence she'd become intimate with all nuances of pain, whether doled or received, learned to enjoy the infliction and the sounds, had broken the toughest soldiers and the most serene church officials down into quivering, pissing wretches. Therefore these pustules, with their repetitiveness and lack of imagination, _bored her_.

Oh, sure, it hurt. She screamed. She cried. But those were natural, physical responses. Anything screamed and cried when you peeled strips of skin off or put splinters into their nail beds. It was just so… mundane.

So when Crowley appeared for one of her sessions she played up her agony and used it to alter the game a bit. In a false show of forced bravado, Meg asked the so-called King if he'd even stopped to consider that there was more to the planet than just _North America_. After all, Crowley's own birthplace lay over there in the land of redheads and kilts. Who's to say Lucifer hadn't dumped crypts all over the globe?

She laughed at his consternated expression. He dunked her head in a vat of bleach.

The next day Meg found herself in a devil's trap in Glasgow.

* * *

The Winchesters' meeting in Dumbledore's ostentatiously filled office was a lot more simple than they'd thought it would be. He verified that McGonagall had sketched out their duties and asked whether or not they had an idea for their first lesson. Sam explained that they merely thought to do a quick introduction to the course and to a hunter's arsenal with the most common creature, ghosts, as their first unit.

Dumbledore had smiled and nodded before allowing them to ask questions. First and foremost Dean wanted to know if Umbridge was some kind of a previously unknown creature that they needed to keep an eye on. He was mostly assured that she was human, to which Dean sullenly replied that he wouldn't kill her. For now.

Sam tentatively asked if there was anyone who could introduce him to wand-work. Dumbledore said he would ask the staff if anyone would be willing to spend the extra time tutoring the newly unearthed wizard.

Just as the brothers were finally starting to feel the debilitating effects of international travel and a well consumed meal, McGonagall arrived. She listened in to Dean's queries about some of the objects in Dumbledore's office (like the pensieve and the rather scraggly looking bird) before wondering if the Headmaster had informed the new teachers about OWLs and NEWTs. As if on cue, Sam's jaw cracked in a tremendous yawn and Dumbledore offered to explain those another day. The Winchesters then followed McGonagall to their castle quarters.

Their classroom ended up being modestly sized with a staircase leading up to the office. A door within that private space led to a bedroom with canopied beds, dressers, a private bathroom, and a large-eared creature with enormous, eager eyes. "Sam Winchester, sir! Dean Winchester, sir! I is Dobby, sirs. Dumbledore asked me to helps you with clothings."

The brothers blinked blearily at McGonagall. "I realize that you are used to a more casual wardrobe. However, with… certain elements currently present in the castle it would be advisable to adhere to some of our dress codes."

"We understand," Sam said. After Umbridge's speech no one was in any desire to bring the government's attention to their presence. "But… But what is he?"

"We call them house-elves. He is quite trustworthy, I assure you. We have also asked Dobby here to help you with adjusting to how the castle works. He is relatively new himself. All you need to do is call his name if you have a query."

"Dobby is loyal to Hogwarts, sirs!" piped the creature. "Especially those who is helping Harry Potter, sirs!"

"Thank you," Sam said to both the house-elf and the professor.

"Dude," Dean warned after McGonagall left, "I'm not wearing a freaking dress like Dumbledore."

Dobby shook his head. "Oh no, Dean Winchester, sir. There are pantses and skirtses as well! Dobby is bringing both."

"Great," the elder Winchester said flatly.

Dobby had brought them a trunk full of an assortment of items from storage (the fact that there seemed to be a lot more clothes than the container's size would warrant registered ever so slightly in their overwhelmed brains) and the brothers did their best to compromise, Sam more than Dean. They managed to scrounge up black and gray suit pants that were reminiscent of their faux FBI uniforms for bottoms, but they differed on tops.

Sam decided to conform as much as possible. He selected vests and collared shirts as well as a few black robes with the Hogwarts crest emblazoned over his heart. The only reason for that final item was the fact that there were pockets inside specially designed for quick wand and ingredients access which Dean couldn't deny were useful for his brother, Merlin the Massive.

Dean conceded to the pants and several gray and black blazers but refused outright to spend every day wearing a monkey suit. Much to both Sam's and Dobby's chagrin, Dean proved that slacks and some of his less careworn, solidly colored shirts served quite well as Muggle semi-formal. He promised to wear the jackets, and even a school sweater or two, if necessary.

"Thanks, Dobby," Dean said, a seemingly harmless expression that earned him a good deal of genuflecting and wails of, "Dean Winchester, the most kindest, most honorable Muggle that Dobby has ever known!" The elder brother was forced to bid the house-elf a loud, "GOOD NIGHT!" over the creature's praises in order to make him leave.

The brothers forced themselves to do some preparatory work in their classroom before performing their nightly ablutions and heading to bed. They thankfully spent their first night as professors at Hogwarts in relative peace.

* * *

On the way to breakfast the next morning, Dean was surprised to find himself subject to a water balloon attack. When he swiveled around to find the culprit, water dripping down his neck, the students that were about all pointed up. There, sitting on a chandelier, was the most ridiculous looking ghost the Winchesters had ever seen. It appeared to be a short, black-haired court jester, complete with bells on his hat. Several more missiles were in his hands.

The girls and boys who were unlucky to be sharing the hallway with the brothers were then subject to a bombardment. Indignant shrieks echoed off the stone as students sprinted for the Hall. Dean, however, had gotten out his handgun, and despite Sam's, "Wait, don't!" shot down the jester's perch.

With a terrifically loud clamor the chandelier crashed to the floor. Shocked students stood where they were with their eyes either on the insane professor or the destroyed light. Sam merely glared. "What?" Dean snapped.

"We're in a _school_."

"A haunted school."

"You don't carry your _gun_ around in a school!"

A tremendously irritated Snape rounded the corner and took in the sight. Dean had yet to stow his handgun and hastily put it behind his back. After ordering the remaining children to breakfast, Snape pulled his wand and uttered, " _Reparo_." Gaping, the Winchesters watched chandelier flow back up to the ceiling and relight itself. The jester reappeared a second later holding his sides and laughing uncontrollably.

"Peeves," Snape called. "Do I need to find the Bloody Baron?" The ghost, Peeves, gave the three of them an extraordinarily spiteful raspberry before vanishing again. He left the brothers under the scorching eyes of the Potions Master. "Is there a reason you feel the need to carry a _gun_ in our school?"

Sam glared at his brother in a manner Dean knew to mean _I told you_. "Force of habit," the elder brother explained.

"This is not the United States," Snape scoffed. "We do not condone the reckless possession of firearms."

"They'll need to know about them," Sam said pedantically. "Dumbledore asked us to teach them alternative ways to defend themselves. It'd be detrimental to their lessons if we _didn't_ have them."

The Potions Master sniffed derisively. "Very well. Keep them out of the halls."

A swirl of black robes and Snape was walking away. "Dean!" Sam hissed; the elder of the brothers had brought his gun back out and was casually aiming at the other professor's head.

"Fine," Dean grumbled. He reached over, opened up Sam's robe, and dumped the gun inside. "I don't got a big enough pocket," he explained.

"Whatever," Sam sighed. "I'm starved."

They entered the Great Hall through the picture room again and found the staff table piled high with toast, eggs, grilled tomatoes, and sausages. Sam partook a little of everything while Dean loaded his plate with meat.

As the brothers sat they saw that the students were being handed slips of parchment by their heads of houses. Some of them gazed at it curiously, others with despair. "Must be their classes," Sam inferred.

"Dude," Dean said through a mouthful, "we gonna eat like this every day? Because, wow…"

"Can't wait to see you get fat."

"Suck it, bitch."

"Jerk."

After they were done eating they stood to go. Surprisingly, they were waylaid by a voice from nowhere asking, "Excuse me, Professor Winchester?"

Dean's eyes immediately went down to the source while Sam continued looking confused. When the mystery person cleared their throat, and his brother began snickering, Sam's gaze drifted to the floor. There, a very short, very distinguished man was looking back up at him. "I am Professor Filius Flitwick," he announced. "You may call me Filius. We are colleagues, after all."

Much to Dean's amusement, Sam was forced to bend at the waist to reach the proffered hand. "It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise. Minerva thought it might be best if I begin your own education with some basic charms. We can start this evening if you like."

"Oh!" Sam exclaimed eagerly. "Yeah, that'd be great!"

"Very good! Please meet me in my classroom after dinner. I'm certain we can get a few in before bedtime."

They shook hands again. At Dean's muffled chuckles Sam turned to him, irritated. "What?"

"You're literally twice his size."

"Bet he could still flick that wand of his and knock us both on our asses." (At the Gryffindor table, Fred and George quickly mouthed the phrase, "knock us on our asses," to each other for future reference. An exasperated Hermione smacked herself in the head.)

"Ain't denying that. C'mon, we better go get set up."

* * *

Sixth-years and first-years had already experienced the new Defense Against the Dark Arts classes with the Professors Winchesters by the time lunch rolled around. There were two vastly differing opinions regarding curriculum and they were split between the two grades.

The sixth-years were intrigued to be getting practical lessons on dealing with less-than-friendly magical creatures and were looking forward to some hands on work. While the spell-work aspect was a bit lacking, the apprehension from having to take their NEWTs in the spring made the prospect of getting to smash things to bits greatly appealing. It could turn out to be the best school sanctioned stress relief ever.

The first-years were terrified. It wasn't the subject matter or the potential for bodily harm. According to one first-year at the Gryffindor table, it was the professors themselves and the tools they'd displayed that were frightening.

Immediately after lunch would be the third-years, and after that Harry, Ron, and Hermione would get to see whatever was going on for themselves. A few hours later they stood in front of the door to Classroom 3C with the rest of their year-mates and waited impatiently for their turn. Hermione had pulled out a dull looking text called _Defensive Magical Theory_ and was looking back and forth from it to the class. "I wonder if we'll still need this?" she wondered.

"What is it?" asked Ron.

"Well, when we first got to London I asked the gentleman at Flourish and Bott's if he knew what the required texts would be for fifth-year and I bought them early. Except when we got our official lists it wasn't there."

"Maybe he was trying to pull one over on you," Harry suggested.

"I suppose. I mean, it a terribly uninteresting book and quite outdated in its philosophy, but if the proprietor was telling the truth then it makes me wonder."

"Wonder what?"

"If perhaps something changed."

They were saved from further speculation by the opening of the classroom door. Third-years piled out, most chattering excitedly, a few looking deeply apprehensive. As soon as it cleared the fifth-years headed in.

Every Defense Against the Dark Arts class had greeted them with a different learning environment, from Lockhart's expansive collection of self-portraits to the false Moody's immediate demonstration of the Unforgivable Curses. This was, expectedly, as varied as the others, but not in the way that anyone could have ever expected.

The desks were there, per the norm, except each one was now decorated with a sinister mandala. It contained a pentagram and several, jagged runes, all in black. The same design, far larger in size, was on the ceiling and the floor. Behind the professors was a second mandala, this one wrought of completely unknown sigils and included more angular features.

The usual teacher's desk in the front of the room was completely covered with a great array of objects including, quite shockingly, a number of firearms and bladed weapons. On the chalkboard were the names "Professor Sam Winchester" and "Professor Dean Winchester" as well as a list of creatures:

Demon  
Angel  
Ghost  
Vampire  
Werewolf  
Shapeshifter  
Skinwalker  
Ghoul

All the students talked, pointing from one thing to another, unable to quiet themselves even when the taller professor cleared his throat. The shorter one then picked up a shotgun, cocked it, and fired a round into the ceiling. Judging by the spattering of holes already present, he'd already used the technique on the previous classes. Regardless of the unconventionality, it worked. Silence immediately descended.

"Welcome," said the unarmed one. "I'm Professor Sam Winchester and this is my brother, Professor Dean Winchester. We'll be teaching you Defense Against the Dark Arts. Because we have the same last names we've decided that, if you're comfortable doing so, you're allowed to call us 'Professor Sam' or 'Professor Dean'."

"We're going to be using practical, Muggle ways," said the shorter one, Dean. "Stick waving'll happen later."

A Ravenclaw raised his hand. "Excuse me, but how is it that Muggles know how to do these things? Magical creatures tend to stay away from them, don't they?"

"Unfortunately, no," answered Professor Sam. "Not all the time. And for those people it's normally fatal."

Malfoy was next. "Shouldn't we be learning how to use our _wands_ instead? Since we're _not_ Muggles."

"How quickly can you draw your wand?" The Slytherin boy shrugged. "Do you think you could draw it, wave it, and call a spell while a werewolf is charging at you? Or would it be easier to pull a gun and shoot it full of silver?"

"Depends on the wizard," Malfoy replied cockily.

"Try it," Professor Dean suggested.

Confident in his abilities, Malfoy stood up. He squared off down the aisle from the new teacher. The latter stood still and tossed a small object up and down in one hand. A few tense seconds passed before Malfoy quickly reached into his robes… and was clocked between the eyes with whatever Professor Dean had been holding. "Ow!"

The thing clattered to the floor. As Malfoy sat back in his seat (one hand rubbing the small red mark on his face), the shorter-haired teacher picked up what he'd thrown. "Silver bullet," he announced. "Moves a hell of a lot faster through a gun."

"Wands are breakable," continued Sam. "Your voice isn't reliable. Suppose you're facing that werewolf and you've got a sore throat and can't speak?"

"We're not sayin' toss the sticks," added Dean. "We're sayin' that you gotta have more than one tool in your bag."

Professor Sam walked up to the board and gestured to the list of creatures. "These are some of the things we're hoping to teach you about this year. There's a whole lot more than this out there, but these are the most common monsters we've come up against."

Hermione raised her hand. "What sort of demons will we be looking into? Water? Fire?"

"The ones from Hell," Professor Dean said grimly.

After a moment of incredibly tense silence, during which the students digested the idea of an actual, viable underworld, Hermione ventured, "A-And angels? There are angels?"

"Yes." A few of the Muggleborns began whispering excitedly. Dean shook his head. "But they ain't like you think."

"We'll get to that," Sam said hurriedly. "In the meantime, let's take a look at some tools."

The professors spent the rest of the class explaining the various items that they'd put on display. Handguns for bullets, either silver or engraved with the same pentagram and circle that was all over the room. Shotguns with rounds full of rock salt. Knives made of silver, steel, bronze, and stakes of different woods. Large blades for creatures that required beheading or evisceration. A bottle filled with holy water, another with holy oil, and a third with "dead man's blood."

Professor Sam allowed the varying bullets, stakes, and bottles to be passed around as he and his brother quickly skimmed through their usages. Professor Dean prowled the class to make sure no one pocketed anything, a precaution that ended up being necessary; at some point a silver bullet stopped making its rounds. After walking about a bit, the shorter-haired teacher knelt down at Goyle's desk and whispered something in the boy's ear that made him blanche. Miraculously the bullet reappeared in the rotation.

"Homework this week," called Professor Sam. "A page—a _foot_ of parchment on the differences between poltergeists and ghosts. Feel free to interview the castle ghosts for info. Have a good week!"

* * *

"No, don't—"

Castiel cut Dean's objections off with his fist. The man's head snapped to one side and then the other as the angel rained blows down upon his friend. Eventually Dean was reduced to begging on his knees, his face bruised and bloodied. The angel flexed his arm, his blade fell from its sheath, and wrapped reddened fingers around the haft.

Then he hesitated.

 _What was he doing?_ Why was he killing Dean Winchester? Where was Sam? Shouldn't Sam be here, too? Wasn't there something he was looking for? Wasn't there someone who—

Bright lights clicked on. Dean's mangled features disappeared. An exasperated sigh echoed through the vast room as two other angels grabbed Castiel's arms. "Still no good," Naomi said, frustrated. "Strap him back in. Time for another session."

"No," Castiel whispered. He knew what that meant, what horrors were about to visited upon him, the needles and the suggestions and the _pain_. "Let me go," he shouted as he struggled uselessly. "LET ME GO!"

Naomi turned to a subordinate as they bore the screaming delinquent away. "Get the room set up again. We'll get it right eventually. Then the tablet will be back in Heaven where it belongs."

* * *

 **Author's Note** : According to Pottermore, kappas and kelpies are sorts of "water demons," thus Hermione's desire for clarification. I'm jumping to the conclusion that there are other elementals out there, too.

Religion doesn't seem to be a big thing with the wizarding world, but a Muggle in modern day England would have been exposed to a church of some sort at some point. I assume. Thus the excited Muggleborns at the thought of angels but the "meh" from the others.

And yes, I know there's windless magic. But they don't know that.


	6. Not Sure That's a Good Idea

(5/31/2018) You know, when you start a chapter without having a plan you sort of build your own writer's block. Good job, me.

Anyways, where'd all you followers come from? 0_o I don't think I've gotten three digits so quickly in, like, ever.

Thank you **Lovingh3art, Samuel William Winchester, 1968, booklifeforlife, ngregory763, Kat A. Coop, SiSiren,** and **Dreamfeathers** (Crowley's coming! Don't worry!) for the reviews! And all you favoriters and followers get sugar quills!

* * *

" _Lumos_. Sam jumped when the tip of his wand lit up. "Holy shit."

Professor Flitwick chuckled and applauded. "Yes, I suppose that your first spell is always the most surprising. Now try: _Nox_."

" _Nox_." The light extinguished. "Awesome."

Filius allowed the young man to ignite and extinguish his wand several more times before moving on. "Next, let us try the Repairing Charm."

As the evening progressed, Professor Flitwick found himself genuinely enjoying Sam Winchester's company. He was easy to talk to, patient, and most importantly, from the perspective of a teacher, eager to learn. The spoken charms came easily to the man, which was a change; most of the children that came through Flitwick's class found pronunciation their biggest barrier to success. In contrast, the accompanying gestures were a bit of a challenge. Sam treated his poor wand as if it were a dagger and many of his movements were too stiff or sharp to make the spells work properly. Still, Mr. Winchester persevered and promised to practice those charms whose effects eluded him.

For the most part the evening progressed smoothly. In light of the upcoming conflict, Filius impulsively decided he should begin to teach the young man how to defend himself. "Do you feel up to one more?"

Sam, who had been floating a feather up and down, quickly nodded. "Yeah, yeah! Sure."

"Let us try the shield charm: _Protego_. It can be a difficult spell for beginners, but I believe you and your brother might find it quite useful." Flitwick demonstrated the incantation and had the young man repeat it several times to ensure correct pronunciation. "Now, Mr. Winchester, cast the _Incendio_ charm at me."

"What?" Sam asked, taken aback at the request. "No way!"

Flitwick chuckled. "Don't worry about me! I'll be perfectly fine." He thumbed his own chest proudly. "I was a dueling champion in my youth! A beginner such as yourself shan't be able to penetrate my shield."

Doubtfully, Sam held his wand out at the wizard and cast the spell. The smaller man expertly parried the effects, the flames dissipating before an invisible barrier. Afterwards, Flitwick slowly repeated the wand movement he'd used and gave the new professor a few minutes to practice. "Are you ready to give it a try?"

"Um, sure."

Sam braced himself as Flitwick called, " _Confundo_!"

" _Protego_!"

The spell rebounded, striking the other professor in the head. At first, Flitwick was merely proud that Sam had accomplished such a difficult spell on his first try. Then the Charms Master felt a great heat rise up on his back. Screams of pain and fury filled the air. Panicked and frightened, Filius realized that he was no longer looking at the classroom he'd so lovingly occupied for the past few decades.

 _He was looking at the inside of a cage_.

…And he knew, he just _knew_ , that untold horrors were about to visited upon him.

"Professor? *Professor?*Shit!"

Flitwick started at the obscenity, his indignation apparently serving to jostle his thinking back to normal, and the nightmarish vision disappeared as quickly as it had come. Much to his consternation he realized that he was now curled up on his classroom floor, shaking, wretched with terror-induced nausea. "Oh dear."

"Are you all right?" Sam asked worriedly. "I'm sorry! I don't know what happened. What did I do wrong?"

"I'm not certain." With quivering arms Filius pushed himself up to a sitting position. "I think we should end things there for tonight. Would you kindly bring me to Madam Pomfrey?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course! No problem."

Flitwick found his footing unsteady and, after reassuring Sam that he didn't mind, allowed the far taller man to cradle him in his arms. The veteran professor gave his guilt-ridden colleague further certainties that he would be all right and not to worry so much. Besides, Mr. Winchester was _not_ going to be allowed to use this incident as an excuse to skip these lessons, no sir!

As they sped through the halls Filius pondered. The Confundus charm should have merely dazed him, maybe even caused him to act out of character, but he had never heard of it inflicting the caster's memories upon the target. Granted, it had had the additional complication of having rebounded off of a Shield Charm, but Flitwick had a growing suspicion that the occurrence was bound to whatever was unique about Sam Winchester. Until that mystery could be solved, Filius would have to be a little more careful when deciding what to teach the young man.

* * *

The second week of classes, during which the Winchesters began their unit on poltergeists and aggressive ghosts, saw the beginning of what Umbridge was calling "Curricular Quality Inspections." The DADA class wasn't set for its trial until the following week (during the fifth-year's class, coincidentally), but speculation ran rampant over how it would go. Flitwick's Charms class had gone calmly and Trelawney's Divination class much less so (the rumors had it that she was slated for termination).

The only other teacher to be observed so far was McGonagall whose Transfiguration class went badly… for Umbridge. The professor's absolutely savage, "I can _hardly_ wait," in response to the upcoming delivery of her inspection results was a phrase being fondly repeated around the school.

The day of the highly anticipated DADA inspection dawned. Professors' Sam and Dean's previous week's lesson had been quite the revelation. Apparently Muggle ghosts, in contrast to those of witches or wizards, progressively became aggressive to the point of homicide, their minds warping from anger and frustration. That initial class had been about defense: salt and iron and the various ways that they could be utilized. The first through fourth-years learned to make salt circles. The fifth through seventh-years were also allowed to make shotgun rounds.

The inspection week's lesson was to include demonstrations. Professor Dean had somehow cajoled the house ghosts into participating (Ginny had said seeing the Bloody Baron when she walked in was daunting in and of itself) which is why a rather resigned, phlegmatic Nearly Headless Nick was standing in front of the chalkboard. Professor Sam was talking quietly with the spirit while Professor Dean eyed the students filing in. Once the door closed, the latter clapped his hands once everyone had been seated. "All right, we ready?"

The door creaked open. " _Hem, hem_."

"Yeah?"

"You got my notice regarding today's inspection, Professor Winchester?"

"Yeah. And?"

"You _realize_ that my analysis will determine whether or not you will continue to teach in this school."

"So? _You're_ the one who showed up late. Can I start the frigging class now?"

Umbridge's mouth opened and closed indignantly at Professor Dean's irritated response. Obviously she was expecting either the abject fear shown by Professor Trelawney or the professionalism of Professor Flitwick. Her gaping expression had Harry and Ron exchanging delighted glances. This was already shaping up to be as good as McGonagall's inspection.

Professor Sam cleared his throat. "Today we'll be putting a few of the defensive techniques we learned last week into play. Sir Nicholas will be helping us in our demonstration. Can anyone tell me what you'll have to remember if you ever encounter a _Muggle_ ghost?"

Hermione raised her hand amidst Umbridge's second "*hem, hem*" (dutifully ignored). "That they'll most likely attack."

"Five points to Gryffindor." ( _"hem, HEM_.") Professor Sam turned to his brother. "You hear something?"

"Nope."

A couple of students snickered quietly as Umbridge fumed. "All right," Sam continued, "who can tell me how to shield themselves from an attack?"

Both Hermione and a Ravenclaw girl raised their hands. The professor called on the Ravenclaw. "Salt."

"Five points to Ravenclaw," said Professor Sam proudly as Professor Dean began shaking a bag of salt onto the floor. "The shape isn't what matters. As long as you can be enclosed inside the stuff you'll be fine."

" _Excuse_ me, professors," Umbridge said, her high-pitched voice ringing off the stone. "But could you _please_ explain to me why you are teaching your students about _Muggle_ ghosts? There are no such things."

"Dude," Professor Dean said, "I think I'm hearing that squeaky sound again."

"Yeah, me too. Maybe we should ask Filch to come check the pipes."

More than a few students were turning red from having to keep in their glee. "Anyways," said Professor Sam as he stepped into the salt circle, "Sir Nicholas, could you try and touch me?"

Nearly Headless Nick sighed and slowly pushed his arm out at Sam. The ghost's hand halted as if it had hit a wall. When he followed it up with a more forceful strike, the invisible barrier still repelled him. Sir Nicholas shook his hand out as Professor Dean kneeled down. "Only takes a little bit for it to fail, though," he said as he drew a small line through the salt. This time the spirit sent Sam flying. He hit the floor before sliding into the nearest wall.

A few of the more unsavory students (and Umbridge) cracked grins. "My word!" Sir Nicholas exclaimed worriedly. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Professor Sam groaned as he picked himself up. "I'm fine." He brushed dust from his back and asked, "You ready for the next part?"

The ghost sighed. "Anything to further the children's education I suppose."

Sir Nicholas braced himself as Professor Dean hefted a crowbar. He swung it through the Gryffindor spirit who let out a yelp, the point of contact on his body lighting up as if he'd been burned, and dissipated. After a few moments, Sir Nicholas returned, his ethereal form spasming twice before stabilizing. "Highly unpleasant," he groused.

"Anything with iron works," Professor Dean said. "But it ain't permanent." He held up one of the shotgun rounds they had learned to fill. "Remember these?" The class nodded. Dean loaded up a double barrel. Sir Nicholas braced himself again as most of the students plugged their ears. One deafening boom later and the ghost had been dispersed.

"Still not permanent," Professor Sam said as the spirit reformed, grumbling, at the other end of the room. "Homework: the ghosts in the castle are allowing you for this week _only_ to test both salt and iron against them. Try both techniques and write a foot of parchment on the results. I've, um, been asked to tell you not to bother either the Bloody Baron or the Grey Lady unless you belong to their houses."

"Extra credit if you get Peeves," Dean added mischievously.

" _Hem, hem_."

The shorter professor sighed and used his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He exchanged a look with his brother and hefted the shotgun. "No, Dean."

"I'm sorry _professors_ ," said Umbridge, the emphasis on their title clearly meant to indicate her disdain, "but this series of lessons is quite aggressive for young children. I'm at a loss to explain why you think it's necessary to have them learn to defend themselves."

"What?" Professor Sam asked, bemused, at the same time that Professor Dean asked, "Are you fuc—frigging kidding me?"

"This is an _educational institution_ , not real life. Surely you don't suppose a threat will come flying in through the window?" When both professors deigned to answer, Umbridge stood up and walked down the center aisle. "I am a _Ministry_ trained educational expert," she announced, causing both men's eyebrows to shoot skywards. "Wizards far older and with far more training than either of _you_ had designed a theory-based curriculum that was supposed to be implemented by none other than myself. This so-called _defensive lesson_ is highly inappropriate!"

"Knew something had changed!" Hermione whispered to Harry. When he didn't respond, she took a closer look at him. She was alarmed to see the telltale signs of an impending explosion, same as those he'd exhibited back at Grimmauld Place. "Harry," Hermione hissed. " Harry, no!"

Professor Sam had folded his arms and was glowering down at Umbridge. The man loomed over a foot in height over her, even with her heels, making Umbridge's attempts to look imposing look ridiculous. "Dumbledore told us what to do and what the kids need to know," growled Professor Sam. "There's a lot of crap out there they'll need to deal with and pretending it ain't there won't make it go away!"

"Ministry-approved curriculum states that the children require only _theoretical_ lessons on defense!" Umbridge turned towards the students and gave them a sickening sweet smile. Her tone transformed from righteous to something more suitable to soothing a class of preschoolers. "If you understand those, then you shall be prepared for any so-called threats that may be waiting for you."

" _So-called_ threats?" Harry repeated incredulously. "Are you telling me—"

"Students who wish to speak should raise their hands."

The class was running long, the bell having rung while Umbridge had been speaking, and both of the actual DADA professors appeared to be nonplussed by the sudden takeover of their lesson, but none of the students wanted to miss whatever was about to happen. Some, like Hermione and Parvati, believed the Winchesters' lessons were necessary and wanted to see if they'd suddenly have to deal with an abrupt change in content. Others, like Malfoy, wanted to know whether or not Umbridge was strong enough to support or if she was merely a pink bag of hot air. The rest were there for the spectacle.

Hermione's hand shot up. When Umbridge nodded her head, the girl asked, "Surely the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive techniques?"

"Do you expect to be attacked during class?"

"No, but—"

"As I have said: knowledge itself will become your defense. Therefore, practice is unnecessary."

"Is she for real?" Professor Dean muttered just loud enough for the room to hear. "That's a load of—umph!" He cut off when his brother slammed an elbow into his side.

"What good is theory in the real world?" Harry asked angrily, his hand thrust upwards.

"Again," Umbridge said quietly, "this is _school_ , _not_ the real world."

"So we're _not_ supposed to be prepared for what's waiting out there?"

"There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter. Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?" inquired Professor Umbridge in a horribly honeyed voice.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe _Lord Voldemort_?"

Several of the students gasped at the name. Neville even slipped off his stool. For the first time since she'd begun speaking to the children, Umbridge lost her faux attempt to be charming. "Let me make this perfectly clear. You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead—"

"He wasn't dead," Potter inserted, his belligerence catching the attention of Professor Sam, "but, yeah, he's returned!"

Umbridge plowed on. "What rumors you may have heard are of no consequence. Everything that has been told to you _is a lie_."

"It is NOT a lie!" Harry stood up amidst both Hermione's and Professor Sam's vain gestures to urge him to silence. "I saw him. I fought him!"

"Detention, Potter!" Umbridge sang. "Tomorrow evening. Five o'clock. My office." She drew a deep breath and gazed about the room. "I repeat, _this is a lie_. The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If someone is alarming you with _fibs_ about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your _friend_."

Harry hadn't sat back down. His fists clenched and despite Hermione's repeat of, "Harry, no!" and Professor Sam's vigorous head shaking (Professor Dean was eyeing Umbridge as if he were deciding which protruding body part to chop off first), he uttered, with great emotion, "So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?"

As the class fell completely silent, the pink-clad monstrosity lifted her chin, her eyes narrowed. "Cedric Diggory's death was a _tragic_ accident."

"It was _murder_." Professor Sam sighed audibly at Harry's proclamation. "Voldemort killed him and you know it."

Umbridge gave the boy a malicious grin before whirling around. "Parchment and quill."

"What?" asked a bewildered Professor Dean. When she held a hand out, he rolled his eyes. Professor Sam grabbed the first ones he could see off of the instructor's desk. He slapped them into the woman's hand so forcefully the top of the quill snapped off.

Umbridge spent a few moments writing before rolling up the parchment and gesturing for Harry to approach. She gave it to him and instructed, "Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear."

Harry Potter marched off without acknowledging the stares of his fellow classmates. The door slammed shut behind him. "Now!" Umbridge said, radiant with satisfaction as she strode after Potter. The woman stopped at the edge of the enormous mandala on the ceiling and spun back around towards the DADA professors. "We shall see what Professor Dumbledore has to say about your so-called curricu—"

Another tremendous explosion filled the air. Umbridge flew off of her feet and crashed into the door. The impact knocked her unconscious, but other than the front of her pink cardigan (which was now shredded) she appeared unharmed. "DEAN!" shouted Professor Sam censoriously.

"What?" his brother asked, the man's attempt to look innocent spoiled by the smoke drifting out of the shotgun in his hands. "She stopped at the devil's trap. Thought she might be a demon. Oh, class dismissed!" Professor Dean added.

The students hurried out while stepping around or over the prone Head of Curriculum. No one helped her.

* * *

Umbridge, of course, was absolutely livid and demanded that Dumbledore sack the two professors at once. An attack on a ministry official was grounds for imprisonment in Azkaban, in her opinion. The problem with her story, however, was that not a single student would corroborate the events. Some were appalled at her dismissive behavior towards Potter's allegations. Others were disinclined to support someone who obviously wanted to deny them a proper Defense Against the Dark Arts education. The few who were contemplating an alliance with the woman were, at the same time, unwilling to get on the bad side of a gun-toting maniac. As a result, the Winchesters remained at their post and Umbridge was forced to look into more circuitous routes in order to get her way.

School rolled on uneventfully for the next several weeks. The brothers settled into a routine: classes during the week, Sam taking lessons at night from Flitwick, regular check-ins to Kevin, and repeated, futile attempts to get ahold of Castiel.

Their angelic friend's continued silence worried them both; since returning from Purgatory the seraph had been acting decidedly odd. It was possible that his extensive stay in that realm being endlessly hunted by its denizens had changed him in unknown ways. It was also possible that Castiel was either mentally or physically ill. The former could be blowback from when the angel had taken on Sam's Cage-induced madness; the latter might be why blood had dripped from Castiel's eyes after he'd dispatched the supposedly compromised Samandriel. Whatever the reason, the brothers hoped that their friend would reappear soon and bring an end their worrying speculation.

Then, a week and a half before Halloween, Kevin finally made a breakthrough, and unwittingly pushed both the Winchesters and the Order of the Phoenix towards a war that would inflict previously unimaginable devastation.

* * *

"Got it I got it I got it, listen, closing the Hall of Greats—"

"Whoa whoa whoa, Kevin, slow down. You've got what now?"

"I know how to close the Gates to Hell!" the boy exclaimed after taking a deep, semi-calming breath. "I got it translated. It's-It's the first step, I can start getting my life back, my mom can stop crying every time I talk to her and-and-and I can stop living underground like a freaking _rat_ because every demon on Earth wants to peel my face off…"

Dean struggled not to grimace as Kevin continued rambling. Isolation wasn't doing the boy any favors. "Okay, okay. Take a breather. What is it?"

"Hold on." A rather novel view of the bunker ceiling filled the screen for a minute as Kevin shuffled through his papers. Dean fleetingly wondered how the Men of Letters managed to keep the place free of cobwebs. Must have been some kind of spell.

"Hey," Sam said quietly as he entered the Muggle Lab (which contained the WiFi and computer access McGonagall had promised). "How's he doing?"

"He needs to cut down on the meth, but otherwise he's fine."

"I heard that," Kevin snapped as he picked his phone back up. "It's a set of Trials. Tablet says, 'Whosoever chooses to undertake these tasks should fear not danger, nor death, nor…'" The boy squinted back and forth a bit between the demon tablet and his notebook. "A word I think means getting your spine ripped out through your mouth for all eternity."

"Good times," Dean commented flatly.

"I've only been able to crack one of the tests so far, and it's gross. You've got to kill a hound of hell and bathe in its blood."

"Awesome."

"Hey, Kev?" Sam asked. "Can you hold on a sec?"

"I guess," Kevin replied sullenly.

Sam hit the mute button on the screen and dragged his brother away from the camera. "Look, I don't think leaving him alone in the bunker was a good idea."

"He's the one that didn't wanna come," Dean recalled.

"He's, what, nineteen? Twenty at most. The Seventh Years here are around his age. It'd do him good to be around other kids, even if they're magical."

Dean walked back to the computer and found the screen once again displaying the bunker ceiling. "Kev. Hey, Kev. KEVIN!"

The picture jostled as the phone fell to the floor. Judging by the subsequent small and large thumps, Kevin and a good number of his materials had followed it. "Huh? Wha? Who?"

"Dude, did you fall asleep?"

"Maybe."

"I'm swinging by the bunker. You can give me more details when I get there."

"Fine." The call ended.

"How're you going to convince him to come?" asked Sam.

Dean ticked a few points off his fingers. "One, bet you he's never been out of the country. Two, I ain't giving him a choice. And three, Hermione Granger."

"What? Dude! No!"

Confused, Dean threw his arms out. "What?"

"You're not playing Love Connection with Kevin and a sixteen-year-old!"

The elder brother rolled his eyes. "No, you dumbass, kid needs a _friend_. Mr. Advanced Placement and the smartest witch in the school? Probably bond right away over something nerdy like books."

"Oh." Chagrined, Sam added, "Not a bad idea."

"And if hits that, she's legal here."

"Damnit, Dean!"

* * *

 **Acknowledgement** : Some lines of dialogue are taken directly from the episode "Trial and Error" (SPN 8.14).


	7. Chosen Ones

(6/13/2018) I haven't given up here! I swear!

A little shorter chapter this time, I apologize. It'll almost never happen again. Maybe. Kind of. Probably. Just hit a nice stopping point and didn't want to get all long winded.

Thank you **RandomZambi, Lovingh3art, DreamFeathers, 1968, stormingknight, SilverDragonflymoon, ngregory763, booklifeforlife, Sailor Dragonball 87,** Mystery Guest, **Katzztar, Samuel William Winchester, WRose,** and **Hatelove731** for the reviews! And all you favoriters and followers get hot dogs!

* * *

Kevin was quite literally pushed into Hogwarts via the Floo Network (and the now permanent connection from the Defense Against the Arts classroom and the Men of Letters Bunker). He landed on the floor amidst a flurry of papers, his half of the demon tablet clutched to his chest, yelling rancid obscenities that the Winchesters hadn't even thought he knew existed.

Poor Kevin had a second shock when Dobby arrived with a loud _crack_ to care for his things. He promptly clobbered the house-elf with the tablet, a gesture that Dobby took with great aplomb. The elf was far more shocked at receiving an apology afterwards and, much to Kevin's consternation and the Winchesters' amusement, promptly added the young man to his list of The Best Muggles in All of Creation.

"Where am I going to sleep?" Kevin asked irritably after Dobby had left.

"Here," Sam said as put an old suitcase on the floor.

"Okay, very funny. Where?"

With a wry smirk, Dean flipped the latches. To Kevin's shock he proceeded to step inside and, apparently, descend down a ladder. As if from far away, Dean called out, "You guys coming or what?"

"After you," Sam offered.

Kevin gave the younger Winchester the tablet and peered inside the open luggage. There, impossibly, was a sturdy ladder leading to a wooden floor. He toed the top rung and was astonished to find it solid. "This is a joke."

Sam shrugged. "It's magic."

Inside the suitcase was a small, candlelit flat, comfortable and roomy but lacking any modern amenities. No electrical outlets, no plumbing; just a squishy bed, a couch, a plush floor rug, a desk, and a bookshelf. There were also two windows showing completely impossible vistas. One was a view of the Sahara, sand blowing across dunes, and the other a pristine mountain forest somewhere along the Appalachians. "Bathroom's upstairs," Dean explained, "so don't shit in the corner."

"Gross," Kevin said.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dobby said he can teleport in here as long as the luggage is in the castle. You just call for him and he'll come with food and whatever."

"I don't want anyone interrupting me."

"He'll get totally bent out of shape if you don't let him do your laundry."

Kevin recalled the large, wet eyes of the so-called elf and sighed. "Fine."

"You ain't stayin' all day in here," Dean declared. "It's just to sleep and if you need some me-time. So if you don't want us coming in and dragging your ass up that ladder then you're doing your Prophet thing in the library."

"Uh, okay. And what am I supposed to tell anyone about the fact that I'm staring at a rock?"

"Trust me," Sam said lightly, "it won't be the weirdest thing around."

* * *

By the time the next Defense Against the Dark Arts class occurred Harry was certain of a few terrible things. The first was that Malfoy had indeed noticed Sirius in his animagus form on Platform 9 3/4 and had passed the information on to his Death Eater father; the Daily Prophet's speculation regarding Harry's godfather's London location was proof enough. The second was that fate had decided whenever he and Cho Chang were in a room together something humiliating was going to happen. The third was that no matter how much pickled murtlap tentacles Hermione set out for him the words _I must not tell lies_ were never going to leave the back of Harry's hand.

The anger that seemed to continuously simmer right below the surface of his emotions had Harry lashing out unreasonably at those who were trying to help him. Those depressing realizations coupled with the near-constant prickling of his scar, the endless corridors in his dreams, Sirius' disappointment, and the terrible way Quidditch practices were going had given Harry no room for reprieve. If something positive didn't happen soon the boy didn't know what he'd do.

They had closed out their unit on spirits (much to the castle ghosts' combined relief) and were now moving on to shapeshifters. The initial description of these monsters had Harry worried; they sounded a bit too much like animagi for comfort. It turned out, however, that these new creatures could only take the shape of other humans. They were also, quite horribly, able to absorb the memories of their chosen forms. By the time class had ended (homework was a foot on the way to distinguish shapeshifters from humans) most of the students were eyeing each other suspiciously.

"Hold up, Harry," Professor Sam said. Some of his classmates paused and shook their heads; they were still getting used to the American teachers' penchant for calling them by their first names instead of their last.

"Yes, professor?" Harry asked politely. Ron and Hermione lingered at the doorway, curious.

"He'll be with you guys in a bit," Professor Dean called. Harry's friends glanced at one another and then at him before quietly leaving.

The door closed. "You doing okay?" asked Sam.

"I'm fine."

"Really?" Dean wondered skeptically. "Because tellin' your best friend to 'shut the bloody hell up already' doesn't seem like fine to me."

Harry winced. The conversation prior to class, beginning with Hermione timidly, once again, bringing up the possibility of Harry teaching additional defense classes had escalated into a row between himself and Ron. Harry hadn't meant to snap at Hermione (his scar had prickled with extraordinarily annoyance right at that moment) and felt bad immediately after the words had left his mouth. To his surprise Ron had leapt into the subsequent breach to defend her. If the class door hadn't opened Harry wasn't sure how far that argument would have gone. "I'm fine," he repeated.

Professor Sam sighed. "Look, we know you're under a lot of pressure. If you need someone to talk to, I'm here."

" _We're_ here," corrected his brother.

"Talk to about what?" Harry asked testily. " _I'm fine_."

The professors looked at one another. Harry was certain they were having a silent conversation, much like he'd seen Fred and George do on occasion. After a few moments, Dean stood up and walked to the classroom door. He yanked it open to reveal Ron and Hermione standing there with expressions that were just a shade too innocent. "Just come in," he grumbled. The pair sheepishly complied.

Professor Dean closed the door with an exasperated sigh and followed them down the middle aisle. "He's just gonna tell them anyways," he told Sam.

The taller professor shrugged and headed back to the door. He put his wand on the door and uttered, " _Tergora Inpenetrago_." The wood appeared to be covered in a shimmering, gelatinous substance for a brief moment before turning back to normal.

"Ooh, _that's_ the Impenetrable Charm!" Hermione said, delighted. Harry could practically see her brain working to commit the words and gesture to memory.

"Harry," Professor Sam said gently, "we know what it's like."

"What it's like to what?" a confused Harry asked.

"To have someone tell you that you've got a destiny to fulfill."

The brothers waited patiently while the boy digested the proclamation. When he finally did, he was outraged. "How could you _possibly_ understand it?" he demanded. "Everyone telling you that you've got to defeat the greatest evil ever known, that _everything_ is depending on you, that if you _fail_ …" Harry's voice had steadily risen as he'd talked. He cut off his rant and tried to calm himself; it wouldn't do anyone any good if he landed himself in detention again.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione murmured sympathetically. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Why? It's not as if anyone can do anything about it."

Professor Dean sighed. "You wanna start?" he asked Sam, who nodded.

"Harry," asked the taller professor. "What do you know about the Book of Revelations?"

"From the Bible?" Hermione asked curiously.

"From the what?" came a confused Ron.

"Maybe have a seat," Professor Sam said. "This is gonna take a while."

* * *

Two hours later dinner had started, but no one had left Classroom 3C. The professors had finished their tale and were now waiting for the children in front of them to react.

Ron was, perhaps, the most confused out of all of them. Prior to the first day of fifth-year Defense Against the Dark Arts he'd never heard of angels or Hell or anything that Hermione had called "Christian theology." Now he was reeling over the knowledge that there was even _more_ out there than anyone could imagine, that those souls that the dementors sucked from people's bodies were more than just hypotheticals, that there were near-omnipotent beings out there who battled endlessly over the fate of the Earth. It wasn't so much that there were more powerful things out there than just Dumbledore or Merlin or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, it was the very scope of it all. Ron's world had grown exponentially in the past few hours and he wasn't sure how to process it.

Hermione was initially frightened, as she was the only one of the three to have had any exposure to the Church. Her parents were light on religion, agnostics more than anything else, but Hermione at least knew the mechanics of Heaven and Hell. It had never occurred to her that any of it was _real_. But now…?

The environmental disasters from three years ago that the professors had attributed to the archangels Michael and Lucifer hadn't escaped the girl's notice. While Hermione had been petrified at the time (thanks to the basilisk), social media and various other newsfeeds were still talking about the odd spate of earthquakes, hurricanes, and volcano eruptions after the fact. It made sense, somewhat, that these unnatural occurrences were byproducts of the Apocalypse, the event that had been averted by the two, tall American men currently inhabiting the DADA classroom.

Harry was humbled. His fate was nearly _laughable_ by comparison to what the Professors Winchester had endured. Sam had blunted their tale by telling him that their experiences hadn't really started until they were adults, a tactic that worked for the bare moment until Hermione had pointed out that they'd said their mother had died when they were four and six months old, respectively.

Granted, Voldemort was not a minor threat, but he was only one, albeit unnaturally altered, man. The Winchesters had had to contend with the entire pantheon of Heaven and Hell. Harry looked from one brother to the other, saw that despite the endless parade of hardships and dark temptations they'd remained good, brave men, and made a decision. "Hermione, I'm going to do it."

His friend glanced warily at the professors and then back at him. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Do what?" asked Professor Dean.

Harry's head lifted proudly. "We're going to do some extra defense classes. If we have to face Voldemort—" Ron let out a barely stifled squeak, "—then we need to be prepared."

Sam nodded. "Okay. Can… Can I come?"

Startled by the query, the three teenagers all asked, "What?" with a great deal of astonishment.

The professor rubbed the back of his head nervously. "Look, don't tell anyone, but I just started the whole magic thing, like, not even two months ago. I need practice."

"What about you, Professor Dean?" Hermione asked.

"I don't need it," he answered.

"Well, we could at least use more supervision."

"What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Um… perhaps have some Shield Charms ready just in case? Or perhaps some healing spells. I could give you a list—"

"Wait wait wait. Hold up. I don't do the stick thing."

"Oh. Well, nonverbal spells are quite advanced. Perhaps you could teach us?"

"Uh, no." Dean wiped a hand down his face and sighed. "This can't leave the room, okay?" The trio nodded. "I'm a Muggle."

"No way," Ron gasped.

Hermione looked back and forth between the two professors. "But then…?"

"What," Professor Dean asked, puzzled, "is that not normal?"

"It's not that. It's… um…"

While Hermione was obviously trying to be tactful, Ron had no such compunctions. "Dumbledore hired a bloody _Muggle?_ To teach _Hogwarts_?"

"Hey!" Professor Dean exclaimed, offended.

"Sorry, mate. It's just… I don't think a Muggle has ever stepped foot in the castle!"

"Look," Professor Sam said hastily, "it's important no one knows. Especially Umbridge."

"Yeah," agreed his brother. "Don't think Pepto-Bismol would be too thrilled."

"Secret's safe with us," Harry said determinedly. He turned to Hermione and adjusted his glasses. "Do we have a plan?"

"Yes. Next Hogsmeade weekend—"

"Harry," Professor Sam suddenly inserted, "what the hell is on your hand?"

Harry had been careful the entire day to hide Umbridge's foul etchings from anyone other than his friends, but the excitement of the past few hours had caused him to drop his guard. He sat on the offending hand. "Nothing."

Professor Sam radiated concern, but it was the mounting rage in Professor Dean's eyes that made Harry give in. As soon as Harry brought his hand back out the shorter professor grabbed the boy's wrist and peered at the skin. "'I must not tell lies'. That ain't ink. That's a _scar_."

Harry yanked his hand away as Professor Sam's eyes widened. "Was that from Umbridge's detention?"

"I'm shooting her again," Dean growled. He opened the teacher's desk and pulled out a handgun with an ivory handle. "Only this time it ain't gonna be with rock salt."

"No!" shouted Harry. "Don't! It's not worth it."

Professor Sam stood up. "You can't expect us to just—"

"If you do something," Hermione interrupted loudly, "the Ministry will come."

"My dad works for them," Ron added. "Trust me, it'll be quick and it won't be good."

"Please," concluded Harry, "just let it be."

Professor Dean drooped the handgun back onto the desk. "Fine. For now."

"Maybe Cass could fix it," Sam said worriedly.

"Yeah, _if_ Cass was here."

The three teenagers glanced at one another, confused, as the two professors mulled over this Cass-thing. In the ensuing silence, as if on cue, Ron's stomach made a deep, rumbling noise. "I think we missed dinner."

"Yo, Dobby!" Professor Dean called into the air.

With a familiar pop, the house-elf appeared. Dobby made a great deal of happy noise at seeing his favorite wizards and Muggle. Once they had him calmed down, Sam asked him if there were any leftovers available. Dobby expressed his great offense at the request, disappeared, and reappeared a few seconds later with four other house-elves and heavily laden platters of freshly made food.

The five of them had what Harry realized later to be an extraordinarily casual, and enjoyable, dinner around the teacher's desk. Most of the adults in his life (Sirius and the Dursleys excluded) were either formal or parental around the children. The Winchesters, however, exchanged colorful banter with their three guests as if they had these sort of meals all the time. It was friendly and homely, and very much not like any get-together Harry had ever experienced. No one was worried about impending trials or classes or test results, no one was trying to cheer them up with pictures and stories of those long dead, and no one (other than the house-elves) acted oversolicitous to the boy-who-lived. The professors ended the meal with promises all around to repeat the experience and escorted them back to Gryffindor tower.

Once the portrait door closed, Hermione asked, "Did the professors ask anything from either of you?"

Harry and Ron glanced at one another. "No," the former replied, "why?"

She shrugged. "Professor Dean asked me to talk to a friend of his that was going to visit the castle. Another _Muggle_. I wonder why he thought I should be the one to do so?"

"Maybe because you're Muggle-born?" asked Ron.

"Yes, but I'm not terribly wonderful at being social. I dearly hope the professor isn't trying to set me up on a date."

* * *

Much to Dean's delight, Hermione was immediately drawn in by the tremendous spread of notes and the focused way Kevin was peering at the demon tablet. She watched, fascinated, as he wrote down words and accompanying translations and quickly ascertained the pattern for herself. Hesitantly, Hermione tapped Kevin on the shoulder to get his attention, helped him off the floor after he'd fallen from his chair, and pointed out a minor error that he'd made.

At first, Kevin instinctively became defensive. Who was this girl to question _his_ work? Then he realized that she was right; he'd switched two words and had completely bungled the sentence's overall meaning. Kevin softened towards her after admitting his error and, after a short introduction, allowed her to proofread his notes. It wasn't quite a friendship yet, but it was a companionable partnership.

The Winchesters also began to haunt the library as they tried to figure out how to locate a hellhound. As professors they had no problems accessing the restricted area. They did discover, however, a good number of books that they would have burned on principle (including one that literally screamed at them when it was opened) if they'd found them on a hunt. Sam and Dean refrained from doing so due to both their desire to remain employed and the fact that they were terrified of the librarian, Madam Pince.

Their dedication to research caused them to miss the first Hogsmeade weekend (much to Dean's disgruntlement), but there was no way of avoiding the next two significant events. The first was Umbridge's promotion to Hogwart's High Inquisitor, whatever that meant. Although it gave the woman more authority, most of the students and teachers either worked their way around the increasing number of Educational Decrees or ignored them entirely. It wasn't until the second event, Sam and Dean's first Quidditch match, that they all realized they should have been taking Umbridge's new power seriously.

* * *

 **Author's Note** : I couldn't find any in-canon incantation for the Impenetrable Charm, but what Sam says is a slightly altered version of Google's Latin translation of "impenetrable." Seemed to work as a magicky kinda blurb.

I figured Newt couldn't have had the only room-in-a-luggage. Besides, now they have a portable Kevin.


	8. Quidditch is Awesome!

(7/9/2018) Hope all my fellow Americans had a good Eat BBQ and Set Off Explosions Day!

Thank you **demon19027, SilverDragonFlyMoon, WhymustIpickaname, AriettaRyuusaki, WRose, RandomZambi, Lovingh3art, DreamFeathers, 1968, booklifeforlife,** Mystery Guest, **Samuel William Winchester, ngregory763, Sailor Dragonball 87, Dark-Supernatural-Angel,** and **Waterhead36** for the reviews! And all you favoriters and followers get Golden Snitch cakes!

* * *

"So let me get this straight," Dean said at breakfast the morning of the first Quidditch match. "We're watching a sport played on freaking _brooms_ a hundred feet in the air."

"Yep."

"And there are four balls going all around the place the whole time?"

"Quaffle, two Bludgers, and a Golden Snitch."

"Okay, so, Quaffle is like the soccer ball, Bludgers are pretty much flying cannonballs, and a Snitch is… a mosquito."

"Pretty much."

"Awesome."

The buildup to the first Quidditch match of the season had been marked by an increase of intimidation tactics utilized by the student body whenever class wasn't in session. As it was deeply antagonistic rivals Slytherin and Gryffindor that would be facing each other the incidents were frequent but mostly innocuous; hexes and foul name calling and the like being hurled about the halls.

The students soon discovered that Sam was more apt to be impartial than most of the other professors; he took umbrage to any teasing or adverse spellcasting brought to his attention no matter which House the culprit belonged to. He unwittingly received a lot of practice on _Priori Incantantato_ as a result. Dean, however, thought the whole thing was hilarious and kept his own private tally on which house was most creative. By the time the match rolled around Slytherin was in the lead.

Both brothers were at least peripherally aware of the sport; it was hard to miss the kids flying around the football stadium with the giant bubble blowers on each end. The mechanics of the game, however, escaped them through observation alone. They made good on their promise to have another dinner with Harry and his two friends and asked them to lay out the specifics of the game. It was amusing to watch Hermione being, for once, the one who was flabbergasted by detailed queries.

In the midst of the student rivalry, however, it was becoming obvious to most of the staff that Umbridge was trying to insert her grubby little fingers into every aspect of Hogwarts. A temporary ban on student gatherings had all those who were in clubs (not to mention the Quidditch captains) in a panicked frenzy. The unanticipated evaluations came in and a probationary period was put on the Winchesters and on Professor Trelawney. Sam and Dean grew inured to the random presence of Umbridge, her clipboard, and her interruptions, but the Divination Professor was inconsolable. She found refuge in sherry, causing even Dean (for whom alcohol was a vital resource) to be taken aback at how frequently she was discovered wandering the halls drunk.

Umbridge had also begun to implement what were ostensibly Ministry-sanctioned rules. Every day saw Filch hanging up another framed declaration on the walls around the Great Hall, some of which would have been, in other circumstances, utterly laughable. There was the one forbidding drinking liquids in the halls, another making walking and reading at the same time anathema, and nearly, if Filch was to be believed, one that would have criminalized eye rolls. But because Umbridge's authority went unquestioned by the Hogwarts staff (who didn't want the Ministry any more involved with the school than they already were) the students were left with no choice but to obey.

The children's reactions fell into three categories: the resigned, the terrified, and the retaliatory. The resigned just eyeballed the new postings, shrugged, and continued along as they always had. The terrified examined the decrees, memorized them top to bottom, and began weighing every decision against the new rules. A good number of Ravenclaws fell into the latter category and had begun asking Madam Pomfrey for Calming Draughts on a regular basis.

The retaliatory waited. Umbridge had become prey, and when the moment was right they would strike. Fred and George each had a trunkful of their experimental joke products hidden under their beds. Dean started wearing a blazer just so he could conceal a firearm and the demon killing knife on his person without being chastised for it. Sam, with Flitwick's blessing, began to practice a series of nasty, but nonfatal, hexes. Fortunately for Umbridge, these four were the only ones actively plotting, though there were many, many more who wished they had the resources or the gumption to do the same.

The Gryffindor Quidditch Team, having been the last allowed to reform, would have wholeheartedly backed their DADA professors and their Beaters had they known. Most of them were sitting at breakfast with their chins held high, steeling themselves for their long-anticipated bout with Slytherin. The exception was their new Keeper, Ron, who looked like Dean had felt after a night with a bottle of vodka and a questionable stripper named "Katarina."

"He's gonna puke," Dean told Sam after pointing out Ron's delicate mien. "Dude looks like he's gonna shit himself when he gets on the field."

"Probably because of _those_ ," Sam replied darkly. He gestured towards the Slytherin table.

Dean blinked over at the sea of green and saw that most of them were sporting a silver badge in the shape of a crown. When a fourth-year walked by the table the hunter was able to read, "WEASLEY IS OUR KING" emblazoned under the tines. "What the hell?"

"Can't be anything good."

Both brothers jumped when a realistic lion's roar erupted from Luna Lovegood's headgear. "Jesus," Sam gasped.

Dean shook his head. "Freaking magic."

The Winchesters finished off their pancakes and followed the crowd to the Quidditch pitch. They joined the rest of the staff in a separate section, one that doubled as a post for the announcer (a student in Fred and George's year named Lee). Umbridge, thankfully, was absent, leaving the teachers blessedly free to engage in more lighthearted conversation.

"Charity!" Sam called amicably. He sat next to the Muggle Studies Professor with whom he'd developed a friendship and struck up a conversation. That, unfortunately, left Dean to either sit off in the corner, where the view was obscured by Pomona's flyblown hair and large hat, or sit next to Severus. He opted for the latter. The pair exchanged unfriendly glances before pointedly ignoring one another's presence.

"Wish there was a beer-dude," Dean said wistfully.

"We're at a school, Dean," Sam chastised.

The two teams were making their way to the middle of the pitch, brooms in hand. It was obvious that the Slytherin team had gone for brawn instead of brains; most of their members were tall and stocky. The exception was Malfoy who, like his counterpart, Potter, was far more lithe. "Harry's a Seeker, right?"

"Yeah," Sam replied as the two Quidditch captains tried to crush each other's palms in the guise of shaking hands. "He looks for Snitch."

"And that thing can be anywhere?"

"I think so."

The players were mounting up. Rolanda Hooch, the school's flying instructor, blew a whistle and both the teams and the balls flew off into the air. Alarmingly, the tiny golden mosquito ball came shooting towards the teacher's box. It swept between Dean and Snape before taking off towards the Hufflepuff seats. The two men exchanged astonished looks before remembering their mutual animosity.

Quidditch was bewildering. Even listening to Lee's commentary couldn't help translate the meaning behind the different balls flying back and forth between the fourteen broom-riding students. Eventually the brothers decided to focus on single areas; Sam chose the Chasers and their goals and Dean chose the Beaters. The Weasleys were absolute terrors with their bats, whacking the balls with stunning accuracy. "Damn!" Dean exclaimed as a Bludger smacked into the head of Slytherin Chaser, Cassius.

"Are they singing?" Sam asked curiously.

"Who?"

Severus gave a long-suffering sigh. "Apparently my House has decided to pay tribute to the Weasley Keeper."

The Winchesters listened carefully and quickly ascertained that the lyrics pertained specifically to the badges the Slytherin had been sporting at breakfast. "Shouldn't you stop them?" Sam demanded.

"What would you have me do?" Snape snapped. "Silence the lot of them? You realize that in keeping with the nature of Slytherin House they would just find more underhanded ways to express themselves."

Recalling how he'd spotted a seventh-year Slytherin use the cover of a crowd to cast a hex at George Weasley, Dean agreed. "You guys got a bunch of sneaky little shits in there," he said with a small degree of admiration.

"To put it mildly."

"Aren't they bullying him?" Sam asked angrily.

"If you haven't noticed, Winchester, Slytherin House is not the only one guilty of committing such acts."

Sam remembered having to chastise a Gryffindor in Harry's year for slapping a "KICK ME" sign on the back of the Slytherin captain's robe with a Permanent Sticking Charm. The clothing had had to be replaced, much to Marcus Flint's disgruntlement. "I guess."

"Dude," Dean said excitedly, "check out Harry!"

Sam and, reluctantly, Snape shot their gazes over at pitch. Harry and Draco were shooting down towards the grass at the foot of the Slytherin goals, their bodies and brooms so close that their robes were flapping against each other, each of their fingers extended towards a tiny, golden ball. The Snitch evaded the both of them and flew to the Gryffindor side. The pair of Seekers executed brilliantly sharp turnabouts to follow the ball. Unfortunately for Draco, Harry's was fractionally quicker. Another breathless second and the Gryffindor boy was lifting triumphantly into the air, the wings of the Snitch firmly grasped in his fist.

Most of the school cheered, the exceptions being a few scattered Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws and the entirety of the green-clad Slytherins. Harry was diving down, his face split by a wide smile, eager to join the rest of his team in celebrating their win. Sam's eyes locked a dejected Ron, decidedly the worst performer during the game, as he slunk towards the locker room, but Dean caught one of the Slytherin Beaters, Vincent, purposefully approaching an idling Bludger, bat prepped.

Dean grabbed Severus. "Stop him!" he demanded.

As the Potions Master's instinctive reaction to the man's abrasive demands was to sneer, they lost precious seconds. When Snape finally realized Dean's intentions the Bludger was already barreling towards Harry's head. There was a loud _thud_ and the boy toppled from his broom. Thankfully Harry had been only several feet from the ground by that point and would suffer nothing more than a few bruises.

Severus at least had the decency to first glance apologetically at Dean, chagrined at his mistake, before palming his face in exasperation. "My apologies."

Dean gave a lugubrious sigh as they climbed down the teacher's box. "Hey, look man. I think we got off on the wrong foot. Long as you're on the up and up I'm good with startin' over."

The Potions Master's brow furrowed. "'Up and up'?"

"Yeah, you know. Not one of the dudes who're willing to crawl up Moldy Shorts' robes for a good time."

Before Severus could process Dean's lewd insinuation, a loud commotion erupted from the pitch. The pair of them hurried down and found a very unwizardly brawl, with George and Harry planting their fists into a shrieking Draco and Fred being dog-piled by the Gryffindor Chasers to keep him from joining his twin. The rest of the two teams were yelling invectives or encouragement, depending on their loyalties.

Snape, nonplussed at the very Muggle-like violence on display, fumbled with his wand while Dean sprinted out onto the grass. "Hey hey hey!" he said sharply as he shoved Harry into George and knocked them both aside.

The fight might have resumed, as Dean was discovering that holding onto two incensed teenaged boys was a lot harder than he assumed, had it not been for Sam's " _Expulso_!" and Rolanda's " _Impedimenta_!" colliding between the crowd and flattening everyone, including Snape and the spellcasters. Those other students who had lingered in the stands were now shouting for various professors for help.

McGonagall arrived first. She gaped at the carnage before rushing towards Snape to help him to his feet. Most of the others were already sitting upright and moaning about various bruises. Draco was making the most of the injuries than had been inflicted upon him, whining piteously over a bloodied nose and pain in his chest. "Ah, shut up," Dean growled. "You probably cracked a rib. You'll live."

"MISTER WEASLEY! MISTER POTTER!" Minerva yelled angrily as she stormed over, Severus on her heels. "Explain yourselves this instant!"

Sam sheepishly extended his hand towards his brother as George and Harry furiously informed their Head of House what had transpired between them and the Slytherin boy. "Sorry. Didn't realize Rolanda was going to do something, too."

"Freaking wizards," Dean grumbled. He rubbed the lump growing on the back of his head.

"Heads up."

At Sam's wary tone, Dean swiveled around. An irritatingly familiar "*hem, hem*" floated out from behind McGonagall's statuesque form. When she stepped aside Umbridge was revealed, her hands folded together and a smugly pleased smile stretching her lips. "May I help, Professor McGonagall?" she said sweetly.

"Help?" Minerva repeated waspishly. "What do you mean, 'help'?"

"Why, I thought you might be grateful for some extra authority."

"Can I punch her?" Dean asked in a not-so-quiet voice.

"Not in front of the kids," Sam replied.

After Minerva flatly refused to accept the offer of aid, Umbridge pretended to pontificate over her lack of power before proceeding to unveil another Educational Decree: "'The High Inquisitor will henceforth have supreme authority over all punishments, sanctions, and removal of privileges pertaining to the students of Hogwarts, and the power to alter such punishments, sanctions, and removals of privileges as may have been ordered by other staff members. Signed, Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, Order of Merlin First Class, etc., etc . . .'"

After seeing his brother's baffled look, Sam clarified, "Means she's got the last word on whatever punishments or rewards that'll be handed out."

"Precisely!" Umbridge trilled. "Very good, Professor Winchester," she added. Sam wouldn't have been surprised if she tried to pat him on the head. He was grateful for his great height at that moment.

"So," Umbridge continued, "I really think I will have to ban these two from playing Quidditch ever again."

"Ban us?" Harry said. The brothers frowned at the despondency in his voice. "From playing… ever again?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter, I think a lifelong ban ought to do the trick. You _and_ Mr. Weasley here. And I think, to be safe, this young man's twin ought to be stopped too; if his teammates had not restrained him, I feel sure he would have attacked young Mr. Malfoy as well."

"What the hell is your problem?" Dean roared as he advanced on the woman. The students scattered out of the way. "Takin' away their game just for a fight?"

"Are you going to punish the Slytherins?" Sam demanded. "They spent the entire game bullying the Gryffindor Keeper! If George, Fred, and Harry are going to be punished then they should be too."

Umbridge ignored Sam and focused her malicious grin on Dean. "I do have a very important question, Mr. Winchester. I noticed that you _physically_ restrained Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley." She tittered behind her hand. "Surely it would have been both swifter and easier to handle it with a spell, just as Professor Winchester and Madam Hooch so… _effectively_ displayed. Was there something wrong with your wand?"

McGonagall, Harry and Sam, the only ones on the pitch privy to Dean's Muggle status, stiffened. Sam wracked his brain as fast as he could, trying to figure out some way of extricating themselves out of the situation before the secret was out, and if the consternated expressions on Harry and Minerva's faces they were doing the same. "Forgot it," Dean said simply.

"Oh, how irresponsible of you!" Umbridge said, her hand flying to her chest in a faux display of outrage. "Out of curiosity," she asked, her abrasive tone suddenly melting into one sickeningly sweet, "what is your wand made of?"

Dean had been hoping his initial answer was sufficient and was caught floundering. "Same as his," he replied quickly, his thumb jerking at his brother.

"Quite unusual! Perhaps, Professor Winchester, as the other Professor Winchester gave us such an excellent demonstration on how to disperse a crowd, you might one as well? If your wands are the same then it shouldn't take too much effort if you were to borrow his."

"No thanks."

If anything, Dean's reluctance made Umbridge's resolve harden. "I insist."

The brothers glanced at one another, and then at Minerva. She shrugged, helpless, and shook her head. "Uh, I can't," Dean finally muttered.

"Whyever not, Professor Winchester?"

He wiped a hand down his face. "'Cause I'm a—"

"Squib!" Sam inserted quickly. "He's a Squib."

"Oh?" Umbridge wondered. "And here I thought Dumbledore might have hired a _Muggle_. How dreadful a thought! Violating the Statute of Secrecy to hire an uneducated, unmagical, _Muggle_ to teach our children."

"Yeah," Dean agreed sourly. "Totally fu—" belatedly he remembered the students' presence, "—freaking wrong."

"Instead he brought in a _Squib_ to teach one of our most important subjects! Be sure, I will be bringing this up with the Board of Governors. Your days as a professor, Mr. Winchester, are numbered."

After her jaunty proclamation, Umbridge turned on her heel and strode from the Quidditch pitch. The students, and Madam Hooch (having spent the confrontation gathering the Quidditch balls) followed. Most of the Slytherins cast disgusted looks at Dean, his elevated status as a professor now tarnished by his supposed Squib-status. The rest of the children seemed to reflect mostly pity for the poor member of the Winchester Family. To be born around magic and yet be unable to use it seemed a horrendously unfair fate.

A few minutes later the grass was empty save for McGonagall, Snape, and the two brothers. "Well, that sucked," Dean grumbled.

Severus lifted an eyebrow. "Are you truly a Squib?"

"He's a Muggle," Minerva stated firmly, "which does not change his ability to instruct our students, Severus."

Surprisingly, the Potions Master, the Head of Slytherin House, merely nodded. "It does bring about the question, however, how it is that you can interact with our world."

"Got no clue," Dean said irritably.

"I'm assuming I need to keep this a secret?"

"For now," McGonagall said. "Let's go, you two. We need to speak to Dumbledore before that horrid woman contacts the Board."

They headed towards the castle, McGonagall and Snape in the lead. Sam noticed the latter subtly glancing back at Dean an inordinate number of times as they walked. The Potions Master wasn't quite so serene about Dean's Muggle status as he was letting on. They would have to be more wary around the man from this point forward. A pity, especially since Sam believed they were finally clearing the ugliness that had colored their initial meeting.

The group was brought short at the entrance by the sound of Umbridge's shrill demands. "—is impossible! Therefore you will explain how you maligned the castle wards or you will be removed by force!"

McGonagall and Snape glanced at one another apprehensively before slamming the doors open. Umbridge was in the middle of Entrance Hall, thankfully with no students present, confronting whomever she was accusing of… something. The sight of the intruder had Sam and Dean exchanging their own set of apprehensive glances before they shoved past the other professors.

"Cass!" Dean greeted.

"Hello, Dean," the angel replied stoically. "Sam."

* * *

"…And then Madam Umbridge said that he's probably going to have to leave! Isn't that terrible?"

"Oh, quite. I'm so sorry. You seem quite fond of him."

"Very much so." The boy sighed. "I better go. Filch is a right bloody bastard about curfew."

"Watch your language, darling."

"Sorry, mum."

"It's all right. I love you."

"I love you, too."

Lady Bevell tapped her phone to end the call and sat back with a sigh. She missed her son, but it wouldn't have been any easier if he'd chosen Kendricks, her alma mater, instead of Hogwarts. At the very least she felt easier knowing that the likelihood of his demise at a fellow student's hands had gone down exponentially.

She placed another call. "Umbridge came through. It's begun."

"Good. The sooner those Winchesters are back in the States the better. I worry that the measures we may have to take in order to curb Riddle's plans will run contrary to their sense of… morality." The man sighed. "I'm a little worried about how useful Umbridge will continue to be, however."

"Minister Fudge assured us that our agreement still stands."

"Yes, but as long as he clings to his delusions about Riddle's return then his cooperation will be limited. Hold on a moment, Booker's calling. What the devil…?"

Lady Bevell flipped idly through her notebook as she waited impatiently for her coworker to answer his other call. Something had to be wrong; Booker had been the one sent to monitor Azkaban. If he was using a phone rather than an owl then he'd left his post. Either Booker had suddenly turned coward (unlikely, given his sociopathic tendencies) or…

The voice returned. "We have a problem," the Man of Letters said worriedly. "It wasn't Booker."

"Williams," Bevell surmised, the name of Booker's backup written beside his on the page detailing the growing dilemma with Tom Riddle.

"Yes. He found Booker a quarter of a kilometer from their rendezvous point. Kissed."

Lady Bevell fought the undignified urge to curse over the loss of a fine operative. Then the disturbing implication of what had happened to the man came to her. "Dementors _that_ far out from Azkaban?"

"The wizards are losing control of them. Riddle will be moving soon."

"Push the timeline up. Contact Dumbledore and let him know about what we suspect about the Department of Mysteries."

"Very good."

The call ended. Lady Bevell resisted the urge to call Mr. Ketch and have him retrieve her son. They were certain Lord Voldemort would eventually try to take Hogwarts for his own; according to their intel it was the one place the wizard had felt he'd belonged. The thought of Jasper having to deal with that monster…

No, it was too soon. If the Men of Letters tipped their hand early it was possible all would be lost. Besides, speaking with Arthur was never pleasant. She would have to wait and pray her duty wouldn't cost her son his life.


	9. Loopholes and Loopiness

(7/23/2018) Man, one of these days I'll be able to go to San Diego Comic Con. In the meantime I'll have to live vicariously through YouTube.

Thank you **Waterhead36, WhymustIpickaname, DreamFeathers, Lovingh3art, AriettaRyuusaki, ngregory763, RandomZambi, Dark-Supernatural-Angel, Samuel William Winchester, Sailor Dragonball 87,** Mystery Bela Talbot (?), **KSchweitz,** and **jeremy's wife** for the reviews! And all you favoriters and followers get cockroach clusters!

* * *

Snape and McGonagall stared, dumbfounded, at the newcomer. He was dark-haired and blue-eyed, dressed innocuously in a cheap black suit and a trench-coat. If it hadn't been for Umbridge's outraged reaction to his presence, the pair would have assumed that this was just an American wizard that had wandered into the castle by mistake.

Something about the stranger raised the hackles on Snape's neck. Not only that, but for some reason the Dark Mark he so carefully kept hidden had begun to prickle, as if it was reacting somehow to the man's presence. In fact, as soon as he and the Winchesters had completed their brief greeting those blue eyes had swiveled over to lock onto his own brown ones. The intruder's head cocked to one side as Severus did his best not to clutch his forearm.

"Where the hell have you been?" Dean demanded, drawing the stranger's gaze away. "We've been trying to get ahold of you for freaking ages, man."

"I'm sorry," 'Cass' said. "I was preoccupied.

"Preoccupied by what?"

"Excuse me!" Umbridge shrieked. "This… This person _apparated_ inside of Hogwarts Castle. I demand an explanation at once!"

"That shouldn't be possible," McGonagall said sternly. "Surely you're mistaken."

"I AM _NOT_!"

"What is that?" Cass asked Dean curiously. Before getting an answer, however, he turned towards the so-called High Inquisitor. "What are you?"

"It's an Umbridge," Dean said mischievously.

"Umbridge? I have never heard of such a thing. Are we meant to kill it?"

At that morbid query, the woman in question whipped out her wand and cried, " _Incarcerous_!"

The conjured ropes wrapped themselves around the newcomer who, after peering at the conjured binding, simply extended his arms out and broke free. After a flabbergasted moment Umbridge followed up with a Stunning Spell. The bright blue light bounced off of the man's chest, his striped tie fluttering up and then down from the impact, and smashed into one of the castle's suits of armor. His eyes followed the spell's path impassively. Cass then reached out purposefully with the index and middle fingers of his right hand and tapped Umbridge on the forehead. She collapsed like a stone.

"You still haven't answered my question," Dean said carefully, as if poking a person unconscious was something completely ordinary.

* * *

"What should I tell him?" Castiel asked worriedly. Heaven's stark whiteness was almost blinding in comparison to the candlelit walls of Hogwarts Castle.

"The truth," Naomi replied. "You've been—"

* * *

"—following demons. There is an inordinate number here."

"Shit," cursed Dean. "If there's really a bunch of demons about then Crowley can't be that far behind."

"Is she dead?" McGonagall interrupted calmly.

"No," said the angel.

"Pity. Regardless, she did have a point. May I ask who this is?"

"Oh, sorry," Sam said sheepishly. "Minerva, Severus, this is Castiel. He's a… friend."

"And this nonsense about him apparating inside the castle grounds?"

"I flew," Castiel clarified.

"Flew?"

"Yes. I am an—"

"Idiot!" Dean slid in. "Why didn't you tell us about this shit sooner? We could have helped!"

"I am asking for your help now. Why are you angry?"

As Dean's fury was mostly a smokescreen against his friend's tendency to disregard secrecy, he quickly said, "It ain't your fault. This bitch—" his toe nudged Umbridge's snoring form, "—is giving us problems."

McGonagall cleared her throat. "A situation we should rectify before she awakens. Come."

Minerva swept herself in the direction of Dumbledore's office, Snape on her heels. "We'll talk later," Sam said to Castiel as he clapped the angel on the shoulder. "It's good to see you."

* * *

"The Winchesters aren't stupid," Castiel told Naomi. "They'll suspect me of duplicity sooner rather than later."

"Then make sure it's later," the other angel said firmly. "We know Crowley's looking for the tablet. We need to find it before he does or all is lost."

* * *

…Castiel gave his friend a strained smile. "And you."

They followed the senior Hogwarts professors to Dumbledore's office. The gargoyle that guarded the entrance took one look at Castiel and allowed them entrance without a password. Both Minerva and Severus lifted their eyebrows at him but thankfully forewent any probing queries.

All of them were taken aback, however, when Dumbledore rose from his desk, wand in hand. For the first time since they'd arrived, the Winchesters saw why supposedly more clearheaded and powerful members of the wizarding world submitted to the man. The menace Dumbledore exuded was palpable as he gazed blackly over his half-moon spectacles at Castiel. "Why have you come?"

"I mean you no harm."

"Can you say the same for the others of your kind?"

"I am alone."

"Time out!" Dean cried. He stepped in front of Castiel. "The hell is going on?"

"An angel inside of Hogwarts," Dumbledore said wearily. He slowly sat back down. "If there was any indication of the end of days…"

"Angel?" an astonished McGonagall queried.

"Sit. All of you, sit." At Dumbledore's insistence, Minerva and Severus conjured their own chairs, both of them stiff-backed and made of a dark wood. They set their eyes on Castiel, boring into him with an intensity that might have put a normal being on edge.

Sam and Dean took the seats that were already positioned in front of the Headmaster's desk. Castiel, however, took the opportunity to walk over and greet the scraggly bird that Dumbledore kept as a familiar. The angel rubbed one knuckle on the thing's chest and said a simple, "Hello."

The creature gave a happy-sounding squawk, nipped the Castiel's finger affectionately, then abruptly burst into flames. Its self-made pyre dissipated quickly, leaving a pile of gray ash. Sam and Dean prepared apologies for whatever Castiel had done and were taken aback by the slight smile on Dumbledore's lips. "Not to worry," the Headmaster assured. "Fawkes is a Phoenix. He'll be right as rain soon enough. Moreover," he said as he caught Castiel's eyes, "if he trusts you, then I will."

"Thank you," the angel replied.

* * *

"What is wrong with that man?" Castiel demanded.

"Nothing that concerns you," Naomi replied stiffly. "You are not to ask about it. Are we clear?"

"Yes."

* * *

…"I am merely here to ask the Winchesters for help."

McGonagall cleared her throat. "I would like further explanation regarding this 'angel' business."

"They're the antithesis of demons, my dear Minerva," Dumbledore said gently. "We have nothing to fear from this one."

"Does he pose any threat to the students?"

"No," Castiel inserted, annoyed at the implication.

"Very well, then. I suggest we move on to more pressing matters: Umbridge is under the impression that Mr. Winchester is a Squib and will be taking his status up with the Board."

"He could be easily replaced," Snape said blithely.

Dean turned slightly to glare at the Potions Master. "I'm sittin' right here, dickwad."

"Just the sort of crude language I would expect from an uneducated _Muggle_."

"Yeah, well, better than sounding like a stuck-up prick."

"Dean!" Sam barked.

"Enough!" Minerva snapped. She glowered at both Dean and Severus, cowing both men into silence. "Mr. Winchester is _not_ easily replaceable if only by virtue of the fact that he and his brother supplanted Umbridge herself for the position. Goodness knows we cannot hand that loathsome woman another opportunity to garner power within this institution."

Dumbledore steepled his fingers and shook his head slightly. "Certainly not. But I think I may have an easy solution for all of it." He gave all of them a conspiratorial wink.

"Does it involve shooting her?" Dean asked. "Please tell me it involves shooting her."

To his credit, Dumbledore merely blinked at the extraordinarily violent suggestion. "As… permanent as that might be, I think we'd be better off with a more… diplomatic method."

"Which is?" Sam wondered.

"The Board of Governors, as is their right, does have oversight over our professors. After all, it is their children who attend our school. There is only one person, however, who has the final say regarding all the other positions."

"Who?"

"Why, me, of course."

* * *

Umbridge awoke the next morning surrounded by curious students. She was stiff, cold, and disheveled from spending the night on the stone floor and was irritable enough to threaten expulsion if the poor first through third-years didn't immediately vacate her presence. After they'd scurried off, Umbridge headed straight for Dumbledore's office. He listened serenely to her tirade about the intruder and the Winchesters before asking whether or not she truly meant to meet with the Board. If so, they were waiting for her down in Hogsmeade.

Rather than waste time questioning how Dumbledore could possibly know what she'd intended and why the Board of Governors had been assembled when she had yet to give them her grievances, Umbridge hustled down to the village. She returned triumphantly several hours later, a new, officiously signed decree in hand:

 _All Hogwarts Professor appointments shall be henceforth ultimately ratified by the Board of Governors and their onsite representative, the High Inquisitor. Requirements for maintaining the position include, but are not limited to, confirmation of their status as a certifiable witch or wizard and demonstration of high magical skill. Should the individual in question not meet all criteria they shall be terminated from their professorship and shall no longer be permitted to conduct classroom instruction._

After presenting the decree to Dumbledore Umbridge gleefully headed for the Defense Against the Arts classroom to hand down Dean Winchester's termination notice. Except when she arrived what should have been a full class of fifth-years turned out to be empty.

A chorus of cheers floated up from an open window. The High Inquisitor peered out and found the missing students engaged in what was appeared to be a brawl on the empty grass between the castle and the forest. They were being supervised by the Winchesters and their friend with the unexplained apparating abilities. Furious, she hurried through the hallway, descended the stairs, exited a back door, sprinted down the hill, and came to an indignant, panting stop at the outside of the crowd.

It took her several minutes to catch her breath. By the time she could speak, the children were patting the backs of a Ravenclaw girl and a Hufflepuff boy covered in dust and grass stains. Potter and a Slytherin boy appeared to be preparing to take their place. " _Hem HEM_."

The students fell silent. "Can I help you?" Professor Winchester (the taller one) asked politely.

"Where is the other Professor Winchester?"

Sam's eyes slid behind the High Inquisitor. She spun around and glared upwards. Before Dean could blurt out whatever low grade insult he had brewing Umbridge slapped a piece of parchment into his chest. "As of this moment forward your position here has been terminated per Educational Decree Number—"

"Yeah, I know," Dean interjected as the neglected piece of legislation floated to the grass.

Dolores' speech stuttered to a halt. "You know?"

"You deaf?"

Umbridge drew herself up to her not-so-significant height. It brought the top of her head up to Dean's shoulder. "Then you shall vacate the premises immediately!"

"No."

Taken completely aback, Umbridge's voice shot up in volume and screechiness. "Explain your reticence this instant!"

Dean winced at the noise as his brother came closer. "He's not a professor anymore," Sam explained. "He's a consultant."

"Consultant? CONSULTANT?" Not being a professor effectively quashed Umbridge's authority over his employment. No one on the Board had thought it was their concern who was hired as groundskeeper or caretaker or any of that nonsense. "Who authorized this appointment?"

"Dumbledore."

Dolores fumbled for a response. "That still gives this man no right to hold lessons in a classroom!"

One corner of Dean's lips quirked up. "We ain't in a classroom."

"Of course you are, you—" Dolores cut herself off. Technically they _weren't_ in a classroom; they were on the grounds. She racked her brain over the wording of the newest decree and found the loophole Dumbledore and the Winchesters had quite neatly slithered through.

"You are disturbing the children's education," their trench-coated friend said sternly.

Umbridge had been so focused on the pair of brothers she hadn't noticed the man approach. " _I_ am the Hogwarts High Inquisitor _and_ the Head of Curriculum! I will not be spoken to in such a disrespectful manner by a—"

Castiel withdrew his fingers from Umbridge's forehead as she collapsed onto the grass. Several of the students applauded as the three men glared down at the vile woman. "You sure you're not giving her brain damage by doing that?" asked Sam.

"No," the angel replied. "I'm not sure."

Snickers filtered through the crowd just as the bell rang. "Homework," Dean called as they began to disperse. "Practice the moves. I'm expecting you all to suck less next week."

"Hey," Sam said. "Who's that?"

On the other side of the grassy knoll sat a hut made of wood with a thatched roof. The Winchesters had assumed the place was a relic of sorts, perhaps an abandoned testament to a former tenant, but now it was occupied. A man of incredible size, both in girth and in height, was tending to the overgrown pumpkin patch. His facial features were hidden behind dark, shaggy hair that sprang out from his head in a wild tangle. "Dunno," said Dean. "New guy?"

"Let's go find out."

As soon as they were close enough, Sam called out a friendly, "Hey!" All three came to an abrupt halt once the man was fully in view.

For one, he was even taller than they'd supposed; from far away they hadn't been able to tell he was hunched over one of his vegetables. Now erect, the man towered a good two feet over Sam, a phenomenon that was normally reserved for the inhuman. For another, the newcomer sported a plethora of facial lacerations as well as a monstrous black eye. The apprehension the brothers might have felt over his possible lack of humanity was slightly eclipsed by pity. Dean kept his hand near the dagger he kept concealed on his hip, however, just in case. "Can I help you?" the stranger asked, not unkindly.

"Yeah," Sam replied, "we just wanted to introduce ourselves."

"Ah, I know who ye are! The American professors! Glad t'meet ye. Name's Hagrid. I'm the Care o' Magical Creatures instructor."

"I thought that was Wilhelmina."

"Ah, good ol' Mina! She was fillin' in fer me while I was on… er… holiday."

Dean took stock of Hagrid's wounds. "I'm guessin' you either had a really shitty time or a really, _really_ good time. Like, tequila and aggressive strippers kinda good time."

Hagrid appeared to need a few moments to process the innuendo. Once he did, his cheeks reddened. "I s'pose. Anyways, Dumbledore said you lot should be trusted an' tha's what I'll do. One o'ye is supposed ter attend some o'my classes, I think."

"Dean's gonna do it," Sam said.

"Good! I got some real good ones for m'first class back." Hagrid gave them a painful wink. He then took a careful step back as Castiel pushed in his personal space. "Um." Without explaining himself the angel reached up on the tip of his toes and placed two fingers on Hagrid's chin (the only part of the man's face Castiel could reach). A moment later and all the large man's cuts and contusions were gone.

Castiel's hand dropped away. "There." When he turned back towards the Winchesters he met two withering green-eyed gazes. "What?"

"Nothing," Dean sighed. Hagrid was still using his two massive palms to explore the healing done to his face. "Gallopin' Gorgons!" he exclaimed.

"I was trying to help," the angel said, perturbed.

"Next time, ask," Sam admonished.

"Wha' happened?" a bewildered Hagrid asked.

"American magic," Sam said quickly. "We gotta go. It was nice to meet you."

The two hunters each grabbed one of Castiel's arms and began pulling him towards the castle. Hagrid's, "Nice ter meet ye?" followed them up the stone path. "He was far more injured than he looked," Castiel explained once he was let go. "Several broken ribs and fingers."

"Jesus," Sam gasped. "And he was still walking around like nothing was wrong?"

"His physiology is also quite unique. I believe he is part giant."

"Hold up," Dean said stiffly. "Did you say 'giant'?"

"Yes."

"There are _giants_?"

"Yes. Not many. What is left primarily live in a colony within the Scandinavian Mountains."

"So he's half giant and half… what?" asked Sam.

"Human."

"How?" Dean demanded. "No, seriously. How? Because, I'm sorry, but the mechanics are _not_ adding up for me."

"If you're asking how a human and a giant procreate then it happens only when a male human and a female giant copulate. If a female human were to be penetrated by a male giant the results would be—"

"Okay, okay, OKAY! _That_ freaking image is never leaving my head," Dean muttered to himself.

"You asked," Sam said wryly.

"And now I need brain bleach."

"Hey, I was wondering." Sam stopped and turned to look back at the forest. "You think there could be Hellhounds in there? I mean, if they've got all that other crap wandering around…"

"Yes," Castiel replied. "There is a nexus between Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory located deep within."

"Wait, what?"

* * *

"Do _not_ tell them about that doorway!" Naomi snapped.

"Very well."

The female angel paced a bit. "If they're actively searching for Hellhounds… I wonder…"

"Should I tell them about the pack?"

"Yes. If they are doing what I think then Crowley and his hellspawn may be permanently taken care of."

* * *

"I've heard a pack lives that way." Castiel pointed vaguely westward. When the brothers peered in the indicated direction, all they could see was an endless expanse of forest.

"Great," Dean groused. "Care to be more specific?"

"I will be." A rush of air and wings and Castiel was gone.

"Now what?"

Sam sighed. "I think we better go think up more outdoor lessons if we don't want Umbridge to try to kick you out again."

* * *

Hagrid's return was the singular bright point currently in Harry's life and he was looking forward to the first of the year's Care of Magical Creatures class taught by his friend. Hermione, however, was apprehensive over Hagrid's plans with Umbridge looming. She had sketched out a safer curriculum for him and, along with Harry, decided to hand deliver the six foot long piece of parchment the Sunday before Hagrid was scheduled to teach. Ron, unfortunately, was stuck on the Quidditch pitch helping to break in the last minute replacements for George, Fred, and Harry's positions.

The pair of them were surprised to see Hagrid had visitors: Professor Winchester (formerly Professor Sam), Mr. Winchester (formerly Professor Dean), and the man in the coat who had overseen Friday's class. In an odd reversal of normalcy, Hagrid was the one looking forbidding as they talked while the Winchester brothers pled. "It's for a good cause," Sam was saying as Harry and Hermione approached.

"Yer talkin' about killin' somethin'!" Hagrid retorted.

"Yeah," Dean snapped, clearly not following the groundskeeper's pacifist line of thinking. "A freaking _Hellhound_ , not a… a… unicorn or somethin'!"

"Don' you even think abou' touchin' a unicorn!"

"I wasn't—gah!" Mr. Winchester grabbed his hair and turned away from Hagrid. "Oh. Hey, Harry."

"What's a… Hellhound?" Harry tentatively asked.

"They collect souls doomed to Hell," Hermione answered quietly. "Why on earth would you want to kill one? For that matter, how do you even go about it? They're immune to practically everything!" Her voice rose in volume and hysteria. "And they're invisible! And they kill horribly! Mauling and tearing and sometimes even _eating_ —"

Harry interrupted Hermione's rant by slapping a hand over her mouth. For whatever reason, the last bit had made Mr. Winchester go pale. Professor Winchester glanced at his brother worriedly as Harry said, "Sorry. She tends to get carried away."

The trench-coated man peered up at Hagrid as Harry released an indignant Hermione's mouth. "You are the only one who can lead us through the forest to the pack," he said. "I have determined their general location but they move constantly."

The abrupt change in subject left them all nonplussed. Finally, Hagrid sighed. "All righ'. T'be honest, those're the on'y things I've met in there tha' I really don' trust. But I'll be needin' a bit t'prepare."

"Take all the time you need," Sam replied. His brother and their friend began to take their leave. "Thank you."

"Hm." The groundskeeper scowled at the three men's backs before smiling at Harry and Hermione. "Here for a cuppa?"

"That and I've got something I'd like to show you," Hermione replied eagerly.

"What was that all about?" Harry asked as they entered the cabin.

Hagrid put the pot on his stove and sat heavily down on his chair. "There's a pack o'Hellhounds tha' live in the forest. They wan' to hunt one fer some reason. Right nuisance they are, mostly. Bet they're cute as pups, though."

The faintly whimsical gleam in Hagrid's eyes had Harry and Hermione glancing at one another in alarm. "It'd be hard to keep track of an invisible pet," Harry said quickly.

"Ah, yer prob'ly right."

"Oh. OH," Hermione said abruptly. "Kevin! The Trials! First one! I need to go to the library." The girl shot up from her seat and sprinted from the cabin, her carefully thought out lesson plans forgotten on the floor.

The teapot began to whistle as a bewildered Harry and Hagrid watched Hermione disappear up the hill into the castle. "Kevin?" Hagrid asked as he turned off his stove.

Harry sighed. "I'll fill you in."

* * *

 **Author's Note** : I'm assuming Hagrid would adopt a Hellhound and name it Ghosty.


	10. Heaven and Hell and Hogsmeade

(10/7/2018) It's been awhile! Hello! School started, and even though I'm on the other side of the desks there's no less work. Also, memorizing 120+ names is nutty.

Anyways, I finally pushed through this writing block and I'm chipping away at the boulder I've got on Paschendale, so hopefully someone is still about.

Thank you **DreamFeathers, RandomZambi,** Mystery Guest, Spambot (0_o), **Lovingh3art, 1968, Samuel William Winchester, WRose, Morgause Pendragon, MooBooks, Dark-Supernatural-Angel, Roserayrose** (whose fears I thankfully allayed), and **randy2015** for the reviews! And all you favoritisms and followers get whiteboard markers!

* * *

Dean attended Hagrid's first class the following week and came back in a towering rage.

At first Sam was worried that Hagrid had flipped on his decision to allow them to hunt a Hellhound. However, while the large man had grumbled a bit more under his breath about the killing of a forest inhabitant, the problem was, unsurprisingly, Dolores Umbridge. In a profanity-laden tirade Dean explained how the woman had addressed Hagrid as if he had less than average intelligence, then promptly used the students' comments to paint a picture of an inept, bloodthirsty half-giant who obviously had no business teaching human children.

Dean had attempted, quietly, to foil Umbridge's plan by muttering encouragements to Hagrid, but with the thestrals in attendance the hunter was wary about utilizing his go-to method of conflict resolution: violence. The creatures were placid, generally, but the fact that they preferred raw, bloody meat made Dean wonder if the untamed versions had humans on their menu.

The brothers went down to Hagrid's hut that evening to check on the man and were alarmed to see his face had once again been beaten to a pulp. Instinctively the both of them thought that Umbridge was somehow to blame, but Hagrid vehemently denied it. He would not, however, reveal the truth.

"I swear to God," Dean grumbled as they made their way up to the castle, "if it is that bitch then I'm making her face look exactly the same as his."

"He says it wasn't," Sam said. "Question is: what's he doing?"

"Fight club?"

"With who, the centaurs?"

The mystery of Hagrid's repeated injuries was put aside, however, in the face of Sam's first lesson with Harry and his friends. He joined them late one Thursday evening, his presence effectively quashing Filch's heartfelt desire to test out his newly endowed disciplinary powers. The caretaker walked away muttering what Sam deeply hoped was _not_ something about whips and chains.

Sam had missed the inaugural meeting and was a little surprised to find himself being led to a corridor with nothing in it other than the painting of a man and a bunch of monsters in tutus. "What are we doing here?"

"Just a moment, Professor," Hermione said quietly.

Sam watched, bemused, as Harry paced back and forth in front of the blank wall, his face screwed up in concentration. After the third pass, however, a door materialized. "Whoa!"

The three students beamed at their astonished instructor. "Welcome to the Room of Requirement, mate!" Ron said cheerfully as they opened the entrance.

Sam gaped at the well-equipped room. A table of dark magic detectors lay on the opposite end while the other walls were, floor to ceiling, covered in books. Silk cushions littered the floor, ready to catch the student who was knocked awry. "What is this room?"

Harry explained the Room of Requirement and its ability to transform to anyone's desire. "Don't let my brother know about this," Sam warned.

"Why not?" Hermione asked curiously.

As the vision Sam had of wall-to-wall pornography, an enormously stocked liquor cabinet, and a table of greasy hamburgers would not have been child appropriate, he decided not to elaborate. "Just… because."

Thankfully, Hermione didn't push the subject. She shrugged then headed for one of the bookshelves. After pulling out a tome, a slip of parchment already sticking up from it, she plopped down on a few cushions and began to read.

Sam walked along the shelves, his eyebrows lifting as he read through some of the titles. Every one of them had to do with some sort of defense or offense against the Dark Arts. He tipped down a random book and flipped to the middle of the pages.

 _A legilimens' greatest weapon is not his wand nor his mind: it is his opponent's greatest desires. To be able to discover what his adversary wants more than anything is to gain power through another's weaknesses._

The door creaked open, birthing a flow of students, and Sam clapped the book shut. What in the world could a "legilimens" be? Some sort of creature? A subspecies of wizard? Whatever it was, it didn't sound friendly.

Harry had explained on the way that they were in the midst of working on the Impediment Jinx. When Sam mentioned he'd been working with Professor Flitwick and had mastered the spell a week or so ago, Harry seemed relieved. No doubt the boy was worried over how awkward it would have been to instruct his own instructor.

Instead, Harry asked if Sam wouldn't mind helping him tutor. It would give the professor an excuse for why he was there, and give Sam opportunities to practice under the guise of giving demonstrations. The precautionary measure ended up being necessary as a Hufflepuff, Zacharias Smith (whose name caused Sam to reflexively cringe in memory of certain angel), immediately asked, "What is Professor Winchester doing here?"

As the student's tone sat somewhere between disrespect and disdain, Sam drew himself up to his full height to glare. Zacharias, however, was far more wary of the wands the Weasley twins were currently pointing at him. "You know, Fred?" said George. "I think there was a phrase Mr. Winchester used the other day that would be quite appropriate about now."

"Was it, perhaps, the one about the ass-whooping?"

"I was thinking more of the one about eating dirt."

"Ah, but we are lacking in earthy material here."

"Not a problem, George. Out the window yonder I see a large patch of said material. It's just unfortunate that it's so far below."

"SO!" Harry said loudly, much to Zacharias' relief. "More practice today on the Impediment Jinx. Professor Winchester is here to give us some further practice _and_ to join us in general Umbridge bashing."

"Here, here!" a few students cheered.

"Right. Um. Let's get to it."

For the next hour, Sam and Harry walked around the room helping their fellow Ministry seditionists learn how to freeze their opponents in their tracks. Sam thought he might be learning greatly from teaching the spell, perhaps even more than when he was merely performing it. He also noticed that Harry was quite the adept teacher, giving detailed instructions when necessary and offering encouragement freely. It was an impressive display, and Sam wondered if Harry had a future as an educator… providing they all survived the impending war.

The others left, furtively, at the hour's end. Once they were alone, Sam decided to broach the subject of Hagrid's mysterious enemy. Unfortunately, none of the three had any answers.

"He won't tell us," Harry said miserably. "I'm worried he's got another pet."

"'Pet'?" Sam echoed.

As they walked back to the Gryffindor common room, the three students stumbled over each other to tell their professor about Fluffy (the three-headed dog), Norbert (the Norwegian Ridgeback dragon), Aragog (the Acromantula), and the Blast-Ended Skrewts. By the time they were done, Sam was well on his way to convincing himself that the groundskeeper was insane.

He spent some time revealing Hagrid's proclivities to Dean, Kevin, and Castiel. Contrary to his sustained absence of the past several weeks, Castiel had yet to leave the Hogwarts Castle grounds. The angel claimed he was merely staying in order to catalogue the entirety of the place, but Sam wasn't so sure. He'd caught his friend glancing apprehensively up at the sky more than once, as if Castiel was fearful of eyes up in Heaven. Perhaps he was; according to Dean, the angel had been fervent not to return.

Therefore it was unusual (after the group decided to stop interfering in whatever Hagrid was up to lest they expose what was likely another illegal companion) that Cass asked to accompany them during the next Hogsmeade trip.

"What for?" Sam asked, surprised.

"It is the one place around here I have yet to explore," Castiel replied. "I have seen all of the towers, the forest, the Quidditch grounds, the professors' offices, the hidden chamber—"

"Wait, what?" cut in Kevin.

"A hidden chamber. You can access it through the bathroom with the ghost that won't stop whining. Someone left a dead basilisk to rot there and the smell is awful."

"A what?" asked Dean.

"Snake thing," Sam said. "But why won't you go down to Hogsmeade yourself?"

The angel blinked, as if the answer should have been obvious. "I did not want to scare the locals."

Dean gave a snort. "And making Hufflepuff first-years wet their pants is okay. Yeah," he said as Castiel lifted an eyebrow at him, "we heard about you popping into their dorm right before bedtime."

"It was next on my list."

"Anyways, next weekend ain't until December. You stickin' around?"

"For now."

Sam and Dean exchanged apprehensive glances, but Kevin cracked an enormous yawn and signaled an end to the discussion. The humans headed for their beds while the angel stayed up and brooded over how long it would be before Naomi finally told him why he was being forced to linger at Hogwarts.

* * *

Thanksgiving came, and the three American residents (and one Heavenly representative) asked Dobby if it was possible to have a turkey dinner. Once they had described the necessary dishes, the house-elves came through tremendously; turkey and stuffing, cranberry sauce made from scratch, mashed potatoes and gravy, rolls, and three different pies (pumpkin, apple, and pecan). Not to mention both butterbeer and the finest English ales.

The Winchesters invited Harry and his two friends to partake in the non-English tradition. Though it was technically a regular school Thursday, all of them stuffed themselves to bursting and stayed up nearly the entire night. Sam and Dean bemoaned the lack of a television, and thus the football game they were missing, but other than that the holiday went off wonderfully.

The only snafu occurred when Hermione realized that Castiel wasn't really partaking of the festivities. He'd dutifully filled his plate, took a few, unenthusiastic bites, but left most of his food untouched. "Not hungry?" Hermione asked.

"Uh, no." In a slightly panicked manner, Castiel looked to the Winchesters for help. Unfortunately, they were preoccupied trying to get Ron to chug a beer. The angel blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I am experiencing _hyperemesis gravidarum_."

"Oh! That sounds terrible. Is it some sort of recurring illness?"

"It… can be."

With a pitying look, Hermione turned away to stop the professors from corrupting her friend. Unfortunately, despite Castiel's hope that his little subterfuge had worked, the girl easily discovered the truth and developed a whole new set of questions to lay at the Winchesters' feet.

* * *

Harry nearly leapt out of his skin when Hermione slammed the book down on the common room table. _Medical Herbology_ screamed at him from the cover. "We need to investigate Mr. Castiel," his friend announced.

"What for?" Harry asked, bewildered.

"He doesn't eat!"

"Didn't you say he was sick?"

Hermione folded her arms. "He told me he had _hyperemesis gravidarum_. I thought it might be something serious so I borrowed this book from the library. Do you know what _hyperemesis gravidarum_ is?"

"Uh…"

The girl's voice lowered to a sibilant hiss. "Nausea and vomiting during pregnancy!"

Harry and Ron burst out laughing. Hermione cleared her throat. "Oh, c'mon, 'Mione," Ron said. "He was probably just trying to get you off his back."

"I've been watching him since last Thursday." It was currently the next Tuesday after their Thanksgiving dinner. "He _still_ hasn't eaten. If this were a stomach bug or something he would be over it by now or they would have sent him to St. Mungo's."

"All right," Harry placated. "So what're you thinking?"

Satisfied that someone was taking her concerns seriously, Hermione pulled a second book from her satchel. "Remember the list Professor Winchester put on the board at the beginning of the school year?"

Ron and Harry exchanged bewildered glances. "No," they both replied.

Hermione gave a huff, exasperated with her friend's' inability to remember important details (despite having been new three months prior). "I went through the _Monster Book of Monsters_ and _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. Everything eats _something_ , even dementors. There are only two things that don't require regular food or drink. Angels and demons."

The boys peered at the old tome Hermione held out before them. " _Inquiry into Heaven and Hell_ ," Ron read. He noticed a slip of parchment sticking out of the pages and opened the book to its position. For a few minutes there was silence as both Ron and Harry pored over the passage their friend had marked. When they were done, Ron lifted an eyebrow and stated, "You sure?"

"Not one hundred percent, but close enough. Look," Hermione said as she pulled yet another book from her overburdened bag. "Here, in the _Appendices of Angel and Demon_. 'Castiel'," she read, "'Shield of God'. You can't possibly believe this is a coincidence."

"Er…"

"I don't know, Hermione," Harry said doubtfully. "I mean, say he _is_ an angel. Then what?"

Flustered, Hermione stuttered, "Then… Then…" She straightened, a familiar stubborn look in her eyes. "Then we follow him. In case he's dangerous."

"Follow him where exactly?" Ron asked apprehensively.

"Hogsmeade. Crowds, distractions, all of it."

"And look for what?" Harry added.

"Whatever we can!" Hermione huffed as she stomped up to her dorm.

"And what's that supposed to be?" Ron asked Harry, whose only bewildered response was to shrug.

* * *

The trio surreptitiously followed Mr. Winchester, Professor Winchester, Mr. Castiel, and a highly reluctant Kevin down to Hogsmeade on the first weekend of December. Bemused, they watched Mr. Winchester drag Kevin out of the door as the young man loudly protested, "I'm almost there! I can almost get the second trial!"

"Kid," Dean told him as he jammed a warm hat on Kevin's head, "you ain't been out in weeks. Just enjoy one freaking day out."

"Fine, fine. Whatever."

Despite Kevin's initial reluctance he was all wide-eyed interest when they walked down the main road. As a Muggle, the young man's exposure to the wizarding world would have been negligible at best, and now it was being pushed upon him from all sides. It was enough to even loosen Mr. Castiel up slightly; at least the man stopped staring so intently at the people and was now staring intently at the various shop products.

The four first stopped at Zonko's, where even Ron became alarmed at the gleam in Mr. Winchester's eye. It was the sort of look he was used to seeing on either Fred or George's faces and didn't bode well for any of Dean's current roommates. Sam even bought a few dungbombs for retaliatory purposes (if the look he gave his brother was any indication).

They next followed the men to Honeyduke's, a place swarming with students, where three of the four eyed everything around them with wonder. Mr. Castiel, however, peered interestedly at the stranger items, like the acid pops and cockroach clusters. Much to Ron's horror, the man picked up one of the former and began to put it in his mouth.

"Hey!" Dean said irritably as he swiped the not-so-sweet sweet away. "At least wait until we've paid."

All the men left the shop with bags of goodies (after being pulled away by Hermione, Ron and Harry went empty-handed, much to their intense disappointment). Kevin even pulled out a Cauldron Cake, bit into it, and lost the ever-present look of anxiety he wore. Mr. Castiel pulled an acid pop from his and completed the motion he'd begun in the shop. "Huh," he said thickly.

"What?" asked Professor Winchester.

"I believe this treat has damaged my tongue. Why is it being sold to children?"

"Pretty sure you're not actually supposed to eat something that's called 'acid'."

To the three students' amazement, Mr. Castiel proceeded to eat the _entire thing_. Although they couldn't see his face, the damage had to be catastrophic. No one, however, seemed to notice.

They followed their elders to the Three Broomsticks. As the men sat at the bar, Harry, Ron, and Hermione snuck themselves onto a corner table. Dean immediately tried coaxing Kevin into an ale (the drinking age in Great Britain being lower than that of the United States) while Sam ordered firewhiskey from Rosmerta.

With morbid fascination, Harry tried to see what damage Mr. Castiel's face had taken. After all, a "treat" notorious for burning holes in people's tongues couldn't have been good for any other part of a person's face. He was actually a little surprised at the continued lack of reaction to what must be a bloody, gory mess. Therefore when Mr. Castiel finally turned at an angle that allowed a good view of his face, Harry could only mutter, "What?"

"What?" Ron echoed.

"He's fine. Totally, completely fine. Look."

Ron and Hermione twisted in their seats to gape at the trench coated man. He was currently downing a shot of firewhiskey. No deleterious effects from the acid pop could be seen. "Merlin's beard," Ron gasped.

Ron continued gaping at Mr. Castiel, which was why he missed how Kevin was becoming increasingly agitated. It began with looks, here and there, as if hearing someone call his name. Then the young man demanded that Mr. Winchester listen as well, determined to have whatever delusion he was having verified. When Kevin became both obstinate and belligerent, the older of the Winchesters grabbed him by the collar and hauled him from the pub. Harry and Hermione were forced to do the same to Ron who was insisting, oddly, that Mr. Castiel had just apparated without being noticed.

The trench coated man was significant by his absence. While Professor and Mr. Winchester continued to try and placate a hysterical Kevin, Ron said, "I'm telling you, one minute he's there the next he's not! No wand, no standing, no nothing."

Hermione made a disparaging noise. "You were probably too busy staring at Rosmerta to see him."

"I was looking at him the whole time! Poof! Never seen the like!"

"Ron," Harry suddenly inserted.

"Why would you think I'm looking at Rosmerta?" Ron continued angrily. "She's ancient. I prefer girls my own age, thank you."

"Oh, sure," Hermione countered, "and her low décolletage had nothing to do with it."

"Hermione!" Harry hissed.

Ron's cheeks flared. "It's-It's got nothing to do with it! She's the same age as my mum, I think."

"Will the two of you shut up for one… bloody… SECOND?" Harry shouted.

His friends quieted, appalled. Harry gestured broadly in front of them. "What do you see?"

"Snow," Ron answered.

"The Shrieking Shack," came Hermione.

"Sticks?"

"Um… a fence?"

"Yes," Harry said slowly. "But what do you NOT see?"

"Er…"

"Well…"

"Why the _hell_ have you three been following us all day?" Mr. Winchester roared from behind the trio.

Hermione let out a shriek while Ron indulged in a slew of loud profanities that would have given his mother an apoplexy. Harry, who had spotted his erstwhile professor emerging from behind a tree, just folded his arms smugly. In answer to Dean's query, the boy said, "Hermione wanted to observe Mr. Castiel."

Honestly bewildered, Mr. Winchester asked "What the fuck for?"

Flustered by the profanity, Hermione merely stuttered a few half-formed sounds. It cleared the way for Kevin's panicked statements to Professor Winchester to float their way. "Crowley! It's Crowley! He's in my head, he's _in there_ and I should _never_ have left my suitcase or the Bunker or freaking _Michigan_ —"

"Okay, okay," Sam said soothingly. "Let's just head back."

As Kevin did his best not to hyperventilate, Dean walked around the tree to where his brother and the young man were conversing. "Cass said there was a demon around," Dean added. "He'll take care of it. Guarantee if it's Crowley that son of a bitch will get what's comin' to him."

"I'm so relieved," Kevin said flatly.

* * *

Castiel could hear their conversation through the walls of the so-called Shrieking Shack (which had emitted not a single shriek since he'd stepped foot in it) and cringed. The power of the demon he could feel was formidable, yes, but not nearly at the strength of the self-proclaimed King of Hell.

He needed to tell them. In fact, he _should_ have told them in the first place to deflate any growing worry. But a nagging voice berated him for even thinking of it. Oh well.

The walls of the "Shack" were ripped and torn, as if attacked by claws. Most of the furniture was in pieces, scattered hither and yon by the same creature, whatever it was. All of it was coated in a thick layer of dust with the exception of a trail of multiple footsteps going up and down the stairs.

Castiel followed them up. A scuffle of some sort had occurred in the room beyond. Curious, he stepped inside… and stopped short at the edge of a demon's trap.

The bloodied woman on the floor gave him a wry smirk. "Aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?" asked Meg.


	11. A Philosophical Quandary

(11/12018) It's short and I'm sorry! But coming up soon is a whole Jon Snow and Co. traveling across the North to get a White Walker kinda hunt thing so… forgive me?

Clarification on the Acid Pops: According to Pottermore there's no consensus on whether or not they're actually damaging or if they're just a trick. Actually, I wrote Castiel's query about why it was being sold to children before I looked it up; apparently Pottermore asked the same thing 0_o

Thank you **samoht, ngregory763, Samuel William Winchester, Roserayrose, Lovingh3art, Katzztar, Dark-Supernatural-Angel,** and **randyr2015** for the reviews! And all you favoriters and followers get werewolf teeth!

* * *

The brothers were still trying to calm both Kevin and their three students when Castiel reappeared. Both his sudden arrival and the bloodied bundle in his arms ratcheted up the panic. Even worse, an already hysterical Kevin immediately exclaimed, "Her! It's that demon!"

Harry, Hermione, and Ron all pulled their wands. Meg sneered. "You guys recruiting from preschools now?"

"Cass," Dean said, ignoring the demon's quip, "what the hell?"

"She was inside that misnamed place," the angel answered, his head jerking towards the Shrieking Shack. "I do not know why. I will take her back to the castle." The snow flurried and Castiel was gone.

After a few moments of astonished silence, Hermione timidly wondered, " _Is_ he an angel?"

"How the hell did you figure that out?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Don't!" Harry said quickly. "If she gets started it'll never end."

As Hermione sputtered in indignation, Sam gave a lugubrious sigh. "Let's just all get back up there before Umbridge sees them."

* * *

Castiel set Meg down gently on Dean's bed. She hissed in pain, her eyes flaring black. "This whole fucking place is one giant goddamn devil's trap!"

"What?"

"I can feel it, like an ache in my bones." Her eyes blinked black to brown. "Thanks a _lot_ , Clarence."

"You're welcome," said the angel, oblivious to the sarcasm.

The demon resisted rolling her eyes. "How long before frick and frack make it back up here?"

"Not too long. Perhaps we should get you cleaned up."

Meg shrugged. "I'm good. Could use some rest." An awkward quiet descended. "See, Clarence," the demon said with a smirk, "that was your cue to leave. Lady needs some alone time."

"Oh." Abashed, Castiel turned to go.

With great reluctance, Meg called out, "And, uh, thanks. For you know, the rescue."

The angel gave her a little smile, one that, quite horrifyingly, had the demon's heart beating a little faster. "You're welcome."

* * *

The brothers attempted to summarize who and what Castiel and Meg were but, as Harry warned, Hermione began to spout an endless fountain of questions and expositions.

Unfortunately, what began as an explanation about the nature of angels and demons turned into a vigorous debate between Sam and Hermione over Heaven's assumed inherent goodness. The latter was adamant that if there were despicable creatures like demons and Voldemort in the world then it stood to reason there must be a corresponding antithesis. Sam, conversely, tried to convince her that nothing was ever so black and white; there were demons who had done good things (albeit sometimes in either a roundabout way or with their own agendas) and there were angels who had done some very, very bad things.

They were arguing so vociferously that a nonplussed Filch forewent his usual prods at the castle entrance. However, the noise attracted other, even more undesirable, attention. "What was that, my dear?" Umbridge asked sweetly as soon as the doors boomed closed.

They spotted the pink-clad witch standing, hands neatly clasped, in front of the winding staircases. Both Sam and Hermione clamped their mouths shut. "Nothing," Sam said unconvincingly.

The loathsome woman tittered girlishly. "Oh, but I thought I heard Miss Granger talking about… what was it? Angels and demons? _Surely_ I was mistaken."

"Yup," Dean uttered. They started moving towards the DADA classroom.

"Of course," Umbridge called before they had gone more than a few steps, "if she _were_ talking about such things, I wonder whether her _Muggle_ parents are trying to exert their influence. It would be _deeply_ troubling given the history between the Wizarding Community and the Church."

"Ain't nothin' to do with them," Dean snapped.

Sam's eyes lit up with sudden inspiration. "We were just talking about the Dan Brown novel. You know, _Da Vinci Code_? It's his latest book: _Angels & Demons_.

"I certainly have no idea what you're talking about," Umbridge scoffed. "Are you telling me that all this commotion is about some Muggle fiction?"

"Yes!" Hermione chimed in. "Professor Winchester thought it was a brilliant novel, but I disagreed. I apologize for causing a disruption."

"And well you should be." Umbridge turned on her heel and marched away, muttering under her breath about "inappropriate reading material" and "nonsensical Muggle authors".

"You realize," Kevin scoffed quietly, "that _Angels & Demons_ came out over a decade ago."

"Shh!" Hermione cautioned.

"That was way too bloody close," Ron said breathily.

"Too right," Harry added. "Maybe we should hurry on then."

"Yeah," agreed Dean. They resumed their trek towards the Winchesters' temporary abode, albeit with far less noise.

The truce only lasted until the door to the classroom had closed, after which Hermione resumed their vigorous debate. "You can't possibly make me believe there are no purely good beings out there. The thought is… is…"

"Depressing, that's what," Ron said dejectedly.

"I'm sorry," Sam sighed. "But it's true."

"Plenty of dickheads up in Heaven," Dean grumbled.

"And Hell?" Harry asked.

The brothers exchanged glances. "Well…" Sam started to say.

"Ah hah!" Hermione cried triumphantly. "So therefore, if everything in Hell is bad then everything in Heaven must be good."

"That's a little naive," Castiel reprimanded as he descended the stairs from the classroom's living quarters. "Why must it be so starkly separated?"

Flustered, Hermione stuttered, "B-Because the Church—"

"They are not always the paragons of truth they make themselves to be. I, myself, have fallen to sin."

Castiel's head dipped slightly, the weight of Dean's disappointment and anger over his past acts weighing heavily on his conscience. "Yeah, well," the elder Winchester said, "none of us got a clean record, Cass."

The look of naked gratitude on the angel's face made the man squirm. Dean remembered what Castiel had said midway through the wackiness with their old psychokinetic friend, Fred Jones; seeing what he had wrought in Heaven during his tenure as a Leviathan-saturated God might be so devastating the angel might want to kill himself. It brought to bear the fact that neither Sam nor Dean had yet to address their friend's mysterious reappearance, nor had they done much to insure Castiel's state of mind was, in fact, stable. Dean made a mental note to check on his friend as soon as the whole hellhound business had been dealt with.

"Why does this bother you so?" Cass was asking Hermione.

She sighed miserably. "Because I was hoping, with all the evil in the world, with Lucifer and Voldemort and demons, that there was something out there pure and good, like the angels my parents believed in." The girl buried her face in her hands for a few moments. "It's just so very disheartening to find out there's nothing."

"You guys okay with this?" Dean asked Ron and Harry.

"Mate," Ron answered blithely, "I've been around wizards all my life. They might not have been Death Eaters, but even my mum knows how to brew poisons. Our entire community is made up of shades of gray."

When Mr. Winchester turned his attention to him, Harry merely shook his head. "I might have been raised by Muggles, but they weren't exactly… um… a standard lot."

"We were made to obey," Castiel explained. "Nothing more, nothing less. It caused my siblings great anguish when I tried to explain free will. But while there are many things capable of pure evil, I believe only humans are capable of pure goodness."

"Really?" Hermione asked, her expression suffused with wonder.

"Yes. It is all about choice, and only God's most favored have the capacity to always choose the correct moral direction."

"Okay, great," Dean groused as Hermione visibly brightened. "Now that that's done, we need to know why Meg was sittin' around the Shrieking Shack."

"How about asking me yourself?" came the demon's irritated rejoinder. When the gathering looked up they found Meg glaring regally from the top of the DADA's professor's office stairs. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the blood still coating her face and the way she limped down towards them, but the three students were still cowed.

"You should be resting," Castiel chastised.

"Can't. This place is messing with me. Like a constant itch." Once she was close enough, Meg patted the angel's cheek. "But thanks, Clarence. It's nice to know someone cares."

"Been meaning to ask," Dean inserted, "what's up with the hair?" At the others' consternated expressions, he added, "What?"

"Aww," the demon crooned. "Thanks for noticing, Dean. But this wasn't my idea. It was Crowley's." She gave them a feral grin as she sat on the edge of the display table. "And it's just another reason I want to stab him in the face."

"What the hell are you doing here, Meg?" Sam demanded.

"Crowley's looking for Lucifer's crypts. He wants—"

* * *

"She's going to tell them," Castiel said, panic lacing his tone. "Do I have to kill her?"

"She does know the location of the crypts," Naomi mused. "But working with a demon is… unclean."

Affection for the demon warred with Castiel's oddly insistent instinct to obey the angel standing before him. He quickly suggested, "Well, we could use her. As Crowley did."

"Agreed."

* * *

"—the Angel Tablet."

Kevin, who had until now been doing nothing more than silently trace a desk's demon's trap with one finger, sat up straight. "What?"

"Angel Tablet?" Sam asked, startled. "There's an _Angel_ Tablet?"

"You know," Meg said sardonically, "I get why Crowley calls you 'moose' now. Yes, _Angel Tablet_. Crowley found out Lucifer had it, figures it's stashed in a crypt."

"Lucifer has, um, crypts?" Hermione tentatively asked. "Aren't those for the dead?" She flinched when Meg's gaze shot towards her.

"Crypts," the demon repeated. "Warehouses. Storage spaces. Whatever."

"So you've been telling him where they are," Dean said censoriously.

"What can I say? I needed a break from the constant torture. And I did visit them all during my time with Yellow Eyes."

"Then why hasn't this… Crowley found them before now?" came Hermione's inquiry.

Meg's head tilted to one side as she considered the young witch. "You're a brave little midget, aren't you?"

Hermione's back stiffened. "I _am_ a Gryffindor."

"Speaking of the elephant around the room," Meg said as she turned towards the Winchesters, "what the hell are you idiots doing in Hogwarts?"

"Wait," Sam said, startled. "You know what this place is?"

"I've been around a while. Seen Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, Durmstrang. Not only that, some big ol' shitstorm went on around Europe couple of decades ago. Some idiot calling himself the Dark Lord was waking around being a diva. We all thought it was funny."

"'Funny'?" Harry echoed, his temper sparked. " _Funny?_ He killed my parents! He killed so many other innocent people! How could you possibly think that was funny?"

Meg cast Harry a withering look. "Hi, I'm Meg. I'm a demon."

Before she could say anything to incense the boy further, Sam quickly said, "Wait a minute. Hermione's got a valid point. If you've been telling Crowley where they are—"

"Haven't," Meg inserted. "Just getting them in the ballpark. It's here, by the way."

"What's here?"

"The crypt he's looking for."

"Where?" Castiel demanded.

"Why the hell would I tell any of you?"

From inside his coat, Dean brought out the demon-killing knife. "Pretty sure we could motivate you really damn quick."

" _Please_. Don't strain yourself. Look, I'll make you all a deal." Meg twirled a finger into the air. "Break down whatever shit they've got working as a devil's trap and I'll spill all my little beans."

"Easy enough," Sam said.

"Not quite, Sammy." The demon pointed at the sigils painted on the desks and the ceiling. "It's not like those. It's built into the entire castle. Probably some kind of spell." She sighed. "Look, my goal right now is to get my ass out of Scotland and to the other side of the world away from King Dickwad, at least until I've got enough support to take him down. I can't do that stuck in here."

"There might be something in the library," Hermione said thoughtfully. "I think I'll recheck _Hogwarts, a History_ and see if there's any mention of demonic protection. Ron, come help me."

"What?" the boy asked. "Why me?"

"Come on," Hermione urged. She grabbed her friend's arm and began pulling him from the room. "You're _taller_ than me. You can reach things I can't."

"I'm not some kind of book retrieving thing!"

"Yes, you are!"

"No, I'm not!"

The pair continued bickering even after the classroom door had closed. Harry, however, merely set his jaw and looked each of them in the eye. "What can I do?"

"You can go get Hagrid to move his ass," Dean suggested.

"About what exactly?"

"We need a hellhound," Sam explained. "It's… complicated."

"We're trying to close the Gates of Hell," Kevin said suddenly.

Dean resisted the urge to palm his face as Meg asked, interestedly, "Excuse me?"

Despite Sam's frantic attempt to quiet the young man, Kevin plowed on. "Close the Gates. Get Crowley and all you sons of bitches to stay where you're supposed to."

"Really, now?" To their surprise, Meg let out a chortle.

"You're okay with this?" Sam asked incredulously.

"You locking away Crowley? Sign me up right fucking now."

"Ain't like you're on the safe list, bitch," Dean growled.

"Oh, Dean. You're so hot when you're all tough and manly." A smirk settled on the demon's lips. "I know we got history. I know the second I'm no longer of use I've got myself a problem. But for now? Let's play nice."

" _For now_."

"Great!" Meg pushed herself up. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a bed to go bleed on."

"Wait," Harry said as he rushed to the demon's side. "Maybe you should head to Madam Pomfrey."

"Who?"

"Our nurse. I could show you the way."

After a moment's consideration, Meg shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

"I'll come, too," Castiel said. He walked over and draped Meg's arm around his shoulders. "Keep an eye on her," he told Dean as they passed the pair of brothers, skirting their way carefully around the devil's trap painted on the ceiling.

"Thanks, Cass," Sam said. A few minutes later and the Winchesters were alone in their classroom. "How far are we trusting her?"

"About as far as I can throw Hagrid," Dean answered. "But for now, I guess we don't got a choice."

A rustling, crunching noise interrupted their conversation. The source was Kevin who, in the lull, had unwrapped a treat from Honeydukes and was now munching happily away. "What? I don't hear Crowley anymore. We're gonna get that demon trial done. All things considered, everything's feeling pretty damn good."

"Yeah, great," Dean muttered, mostly to himself. "Like that ever lasts."

* * *

Madam Pomfrey was understandably shocked at the state of her new patient, and even more so once she was privy to the true nature of the woman before her. Harry made noises about "doctor-patient privilege" (a phrase he'd overheard numerous times on one of the medical dramas his Aunt Petunia was so fond of), but it wasn't until Meg flashed black eyes and threatened to peel her face off that the nurse gave in. Rather than be scared, however, Pomfrey harrumphed and shook her finger at the demon, chastising the hellspawn for her attitude and treating Harry and Castiel to the rare sight of a completely flabbergasted Meg. The display did, however, impress upon the nurse the importance of keeping her new patient's origins from becoming common knowledge.

Unfortunately, Hermione's obstinate persistence gave no further clues as to what exactly was fueling the Hogwarts devil's trap. She even bullied both Ron and Kevin into helping her, but nothing came of it. By the time the girl had given up, Christmas Break had arrived and the other professors, including Dumbledore, appeared unavailable to help. It was decided that they would shelve the devil's trap issue until after the holidays and focus instead on the hellhounds.

Asking Harry to convince Hagrid to lead them into the Forbidden Forest ended up being necessary. The half-giant _had_ been stalling, still convinced that there had to be some redeeming quality to the creatures. Hagrid, however, held Harry in very high regard and was more amenable to the idea once the reasoning behind the hunt was made clear. At least, the reasoning as Harry made it out to be.

"You told him what?" Sam asked incredulously.

"That it was for a very powerful, very important spell," Harry replied. "Honestly, I didn't lie."

"It's still a lie of _omission_."

"Hey," Dean told his brother, "at least we're going."

"I guess," Sam replied, unconvinced that the trickery Harry had employee was necessary. "We still need to be able to see them."

"Oh, forgot!" Harry said suddenly. "Hermione asked me to give you this. She said it would help with the hellhounds."

The boy held out a piece of parchment. After he'd unfolded it, Sam read, "'The dire creatures may be seen only by the damned or through an object scorched with holy fire'. So, holy oil."

"Sounds like," Dean said. "We got some Jesus juice in our luggage. Now we just need something to see through."

"Glasses?" Harry suggested. He removed his own and held them out.

"Thanks, Harry," Sam said, "but we should find some that aren't being used."

"Check with Filch. Bet you he's got some in his office."

"Thanks again."

Filch, it turned out, had a trove of confiscated spectacles that ranged from the most luridly decorated items (feathers, jewels, What Sam suspected was the dried feet of a frog) to simple, glass-less frames. They were forced to be content with three of the least extravagant pairs, of which two had lenses that changed depending on the wearer's mood and the other had a tiny owl perched between the eyes.

Kevin wanted no part of the hunt, and Meg was unable to leave the castle. Therefore, it was a thickly bundled Sam and Dean, and a normally-clad Castiel, who tromped down the grounds towards Hagrid's cabin at noon on the first of the school holidays. With most of the student body having departed, the Winchesters thought it less likely someone would question their sudden desire to go deep into the Forbidden Forest.

"Yer not dressed prop'rly," a stern Hagrid told Castiel.

"I'm fine," the angel stated.

When the groundskeeper glanced at the brothers for support all he got was exasperated resignation. "Well, don't be complainin' when yer shiverin'." The extraordinarily large man looked up, shading his eyes against the glare. "Sun's almost down. Good'a time as any t'be headin' in that direction. Now, ye promise me ye'll just be killin' one?"

Dean opened his mouth, ostensibly to make some pithy remark about Hagrid's overprotectiveness towards the hellhounds, and was cut off by Sam. "One," he said quickly. "Only one. Promise."

"Right." The groundskeeper turned. "Let's go."

* * *

 **Acknowledgement** : Some lines of dialogue are taken directly from the episodes "Trial and Error (SPN 8.14) and "Goodbye, Stranger" (SPN 8.17).

 **Author's Note** : So I ship Megstiel. Sorry, not sorry ;) It would have been fascinating to see that relationship develop. Here's hoping for a cure one day for multiple sclerosis.


	12. Success! Sorta

(3/23/2019) Hello? Is there anybody out there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone home?

Okay, enough Pink Floyd. Sorry it's been so long! Work work work.

Season 15 is going to be the last and I'm totally bummed! I just hope the Winchesters go out with a bang.

Thank you **samoht** , **Sailor Dragonball 87** , **Dark-Supernatural-Angel** , **ngregory763** , **notharmonious** , **Noxvae** , and **vampire harry the 2** for the reviews! And all you favoriters and followers get tissues so you can cry with me about the road finally ending!

* * *

There were parts of the Forbidden Forest that were undeniably beautiful. Nature had been left to develop virtually unhindered. Fauna stretched far into the darkness, with the chitters of small animals and the occasional hoot interrupting the chorus of rustling caused by the wind. Sam even swore he saw a unicorn disappearing into the trees. Snow rested on fallen logs and up on branches, gleaming

in the moonlight. It was picturesque, serene, and inviting, but only for the ignorant and unwary.

The standard wildlife was dangerous enough (wolves, wild boar, badgers, and lynx), but the addition of magical wildlife made the place lethal for those without protection. Hippogriffs, Thestrals, Acromantula, the occasional werewolf, an autonomous (and apparently feral) Ford Anglia; and those were just the ones Hagrid knew off the top of his head.

Most of the inhabitants either respected or feared the half-giant, and the group went through mostly unmolested. They were, however, forced to deal with one sentient group of creatures halfway through their trek.

"Does anyone else hear horses?" Dean asked.

His query was answered almost immediately; streaming from between the trunks of the surrounding trees came half a dozen centaurs, all of whom carried bows already nocked. Powerfully built, with heavily muscled humanoid upper halves and a prime stallion's body, they exuded a presence that was both intimidating and wondrous. "Whoa," Sam gasped.

"So," said the darkly colored one in front, his eyes on Hagrid, "first you bring that… _creature_ into our forest and now you bring these!"

"'These'?" an insulted Dean repeated.

The centaur tossed his head at Castiel. "Do not deny the inhuman nature of this one, or the taint of Hell that lingers on you. Not to mention how the unholy is threaded through the veins of _that_ one," he added with a dark look at Sam.

It had been years since anyone had disparaged the younger Winchester about the demonic blood flowing through his veins. The reminder of dark days effectively stunned Sam to silence. Not so, however, his protective older brother. Dean took a step forward and was halted by Castiel's restraining grip. "You know that expression 'hung like a horse'?" Dean quipped. "See, from where I'm standing it don't look like there's a whole lot of truth to it."

"You _dare_ —"

"The Michael Sword," dolorously interrupted another centaur, this one with high cheekbones and long, black hair. "An angel. And Lucifer's true vessel. It is strange company you keep, Hagrid."

"We don't mean to trespass," Sam said carefully. "We just want to—"

"We know what you intend. What we cannot foresee is your chance to succeed."

The first centaur pawed the ground restlessly. "Why should we allow this slaughter to occur?"

Hagrid shifted uncomfortably. "It's fer a good cause."

"A cause that is _supposedly_ just."

"Bane," Hagrid sighed, "ye owe me."

The centaur's lip curled upwards, unhappy at the reminder of whatever debt they'd incurred. He wheeled around, signaling the others to loosen their bowstrings, and galloped off. "What do they owe you?" Sam asked.

The half-giant gave a monstrous shrug. "It's b'n so long neither of us remember anymore. Shall we?"

"Wait," Castiel demanded, his hand up.

* * *

"Should I lead them astray?"

Naomi drummed her fingers on her desk. "No. Not yet. It wouldn't do us much good to rouse their suspicions."

* * *

"This way." Castiel tore off into the trees, east of where the centaurs had disappeared and straight into blackened thicket.

Hagrid began to object, "But—" and was stymied by the Winchesters' immediate decision to follow their celestial companion. He tromped after them, grumbling under his breath. If the fools ran into Aragog and his extended family…

They burst out into a moonlit copse. The body of a stag was steaming in the middle, its guts strewn haphazardly over the detritus. Hagrid walked to the corpse and knelt down, his eyebrows furrowed in anger. "This wasn't a kill fer food. Nothin's b'n eaten."

Castiel was peering into the trees. "Hellhounds."

"Great," Dean groused.

The two humans pulled out their ridiculously decorated glasses and began scanning around. Hagrid didn't think their angelic friend was correct in his assumptions; the last he'd seen of the Hellhound pack they were a fair distance to the east. Well, it'd be something to hold over these "monster"-killers if he was proven right.

Unfortunately, he wasn't.

A savage, unearthly howl pierced through the night. Hagrid, Dean, and Castiel all whipped their heads towards the sound. Left out of the loop, Sam quietly wondered, "How close?"

As Hagrid was wondering how Dean, a human, could hear the invisible creatures, Castiel was left to answer, "Within one hundred feet. Thirty point forty-eight meters," he added for the sake of the British half-giant.

"I knew tha'," Hagrid muttered.

"Fifty feet."

A unicorn whinnied in fright. Snarls, barks, and snaps drowned it out. Hagrid's instinct to hurdle towards the hapless creature's plight was stifled when the angel said, "It got away. Twenty five."

Hagrid clenched his fists. From his robes Sam pulled out a rune-carved knife while his brother held a silver stiletto. Castiel flicked his wrist and a similar blade fell from his sleeve.

* * *

"Be certain it is one of the Winchesters who takes down the Hellhound," Naomi instructed.

"Why?"

"It is not your place to question, Castiel. Do as you are ordered."

* * *

Through their scorched spectacles the Winchester brothers watched the Hellhounds circle the trees. Their eyewear didn't make for a clear visual of the creatures, but what could be seen was horrifying enough. Bodies bigger than mastiffs, lean and sinewy, with the flames and vapors of Hell rising from their bodies. Canines dripped past too-wide jawlines as their lips peeled back in furious anticipation. Everything about them was dark, blacks and blues barely showing through the gloom, which made the glowing redness of their eyes even more prominent.

The four intruders to the Forbidden Forest stood at each others' backs. There were at least half a dozen in the trees, far more than either Winchester had ever faced. "What the fuck, Hagrid?" Dean hissed.

"I dunno!" Hagrid whispered back, the panic in his voice evident. "Never heard more'n two at a time!"

"It's my fault," Castiel said calmly. "Most likely they don't like an angel in their territory. Either that or someone's anticipated our presence."

Sam and Dean exchanged apprehensive glances. The one demon they knew for certain that had a close relationship with Hellhounds was the one demon they wanted nowhere near their current location. "As bad as it sounds," Dean commented, "I hope it's your fault."

"Me too."

"I think we should make a run for it," Sam whispered.

Hagrid nodded. "I'm with th' Professor."

"There," Castiel instructed. "South. The most open space." He waited a few seconds to ensure the hounds weren't changing positions before shouting, "Go!"

As one, the group rushed towards the only unoccupied direction. They crashed through the brush, heedless of the the possibility of encountering any of the other denizens of the Forbidden Forest. Obstacles, however, could not be ignored and were in abundance. After nearly tripping over a root and then getting smacked in the face by a low hanging twig, Dean called, "Hagrid, to the front! Clear the path!"

The half-giant took several enormous strides forward and took the lead. His bulk was easy to spot and smashed through any low hanging hindrances. Moreover, Dean was counting on the groundskeeper's knowledge of the area to keep them from wandering off track.

The Hellhounds' hearty anticipatory barks followed. With their scent firmly in the dogs' noses, Castiel wasn't going to count on disinterest to curb the chase. This pack might be wild, perhaps even so far as to be unconnected to Hell, but there was no denying the nature of the creatures. He slowed, allowing both Winchesters to run ahead, and took up the rear guard. As he'd hoped, the others were too occupied with their flight through questionable footing to object.

* * *

"What do you think you are doing?" Naomi demanded.

"What do you mean?" Castiel responded, honestly perplexed.

* * *

Unfortunately, the angel overestimated his own earthbound speed. Hampered by his vessel, Castiel was significantly slower than he would have been in his true form. One moment the Hellhounds were snapping at his heels, the next found him facedown into the dirt, a dog on his back.

Castiel rolled, tossing the creature. He pushed himself backwards, his back ending up against rough bark. The Hellhounds arrayed themselves around him, eager to taste celestial flesh. "Come on," he snarled.

Through the barks and growls, the angel heard the Winchesters and their large coworker calling his name. A particularly large hound stepped forward. If he could hold their attention long enough…

The bitch leapt at him.

Instinctively, Castiel's hand shot out and grasped for her neck, barely keeping the snapping, slavering jaws at bay. Her underlings barked encouragement, but thankfully stood back, as she repeatedly lunged forward towards the angel's neck. Stinking, sulfuric slobber fell onto his coat and skin as those hell-bred teeth inched ever closer to his throat. He knew that it was vital the Winchesters kill this beast, but if he waited any longer he was dead.

The angel blade sank easily into the hellhound's flesh, piercing her carotid and spraying Castiel with demonic ichor. Though weakened, the bitch was by no means defeated, and she clamped down on his neck. Before she could rip his throat out, the seraph ripped his blade under her chin, cutting veins and sinew so deep she was nearly decapitated. The body collapsed upon his chest, leaving the seraph liberally coated in demonic ichor.

* * *

Naomi paced behind her desk. "This is unacceptable."

"My apologies, but—"

"You will just need to go out and find another hellhound. When you do, you will do this _correctly_."

"I… understand?"

* * *

Sam and Dean managed to find their way back through the undergrowth just in time to see the hellhound sink her teeth into their friend. Horrified, the Dean rushed forward, ignoring the surrounding ring of deadly creatures, only to be yanked back by his more cautious brother. He turned on his heel, ready to deliver a scathing objection when the wet rip of flesh being cut echoed into the clearing.

The other hounds backed away from the body of their pack leader and her killer. Castiel stood, black blood coating his front, his eyes the brilliant, piercing white and blue that denoted the ancient celestial being clothed in Jimmy Novak's form. It reminded the Winchesters that, despite all his foibles, Castiel was a warrior, and was far fiercer than they gave him credit for. Realizing how badly they'd underestimated their prey, the remaining hounds slunk back into the shadows.

"Cass?" Dean called worriedly as he and his brother stepped into the clearing. "You good?"

The light dimmed from the angel's eyes. He leaned on one hand, bracing himself on the nearest tree, while placing the other over the wound on his neck. In a croaking voice, he requested, "Give… sec. Be okay."

"Hagrid went to go figure out our way back," Sam explained. "But I don't think we're going to be able to do this again."

"Six freaking Hellhounds at the same time?" Dean scoffed. "No thanks. This mean Cass has to do it?"

"Is that even possible? I mean, he's not human."

"Nothing to lose by trying." From his pants pocket Dean withdrew a folded piece of paper. He held it out to Castiel. "Here."

The angel reached forward.

* * *

"Do not recite those words!" Naomi shrieked.

"Why?" Castiel's hand remained extended even in Heaven. "Why shouldn't I? Why do you not want me to be a part of this ritual?"

The other angel paced behind her desk, ignoring Castiel's question. "This has gone too far," Naomi mused. "You have the demon. The Winchesters will undoubtedly be a nuisance if we need to interrogate her." Naomi looked up. "Kill them. And the half-giant if he interferes."

"What?"

"I said, kill them!"

"I… can't."

"Yes, you can."

* * *

A drop of red slipped down the angel's eye. More alarming was the terrible blankness that suddenly overtook his expression. The brothers were, however, given no time to speculate over the change as Castiel grabbed Dean's wrist and threw him across the detritus into a tree. Then he set his eyes on Sam.

"N-No, wait!" the younger brother said desperately as he backed away. Castiel ignored his plea and kicked out, sending Sam flying out into the brush.

* * *

"What have you done to me?" Castiel cried, his hands pressing upon his temples in a desperate attempt to alleviate the pain.

"Just relax, Castiel. Let your vessel do what you know deep down is the right thing."

* * *

On his way back, Hagrid found Sam on the ground groaning, his arms clutched around broken ribs. Assuming that the injury had been done by the dogs, the groundskeeper hefted the nearest fallen tree and prepared to defend his new friends. But when he emerged into the copse he found no invisible hounds, only the angel advancing upon his friend. "Oi!" Hagrid called. "D'ye mind tellin' me wha's going on?"

Castiel didn't answer. He grabbed the front of Dean's shirt and hauled him up one-handed. Any suppositions Hagrid might have had that the angel was helping his friend to his feet vanished when Castiel's fist cracked across Dean's face.

Roaring, Hagrid barreled forward. Castiel let the erstwhile professor drop and met the half-giant's furious gaze. He ducked under the massive piece of wood swung his way, swiftly turned, and planted the flat of his foot into Hagrid's stomach. The astonished groundskeeper found himself going back the way he'd came, only this time he was airborne. He only hoped he wouldn't land on Sam.

* * *

Castiel staggered from the movement. His mind rebelled against his body, shrieking against the pain it was being forced to dole out upon an innocent. "What have you done to me, Naomi?" he repeated, anguished.

"What have I done to you?" Naomi yelled, her fury evident. "Do you have any idea what it's like out there? There's blood _everywhere_ , and it's on your hands. After everything you did to us, to _Heaven_ , I fixed you, Castiel. _I fixed you_!"

* * *

"Who the hell is Naomi?" Dean demanded as he picked himself up off the dirt. "Cass?"

The hunter warily placed his hand on the angel's shoulder, hoping to get some sort of answer. Was this what had been plaguing Castiel since his escape from Purgatory? Was this Naomi responsible? Could they—

Dean let out an agonized cry. The bones in his arm snapped audibly as Castiel twisted the man's fingers off of his trench coat. Blade in hand, the angel resumed smacking his fist across Dean's face, mercilessly holding no inch of his inhuman strength back.

* * *

"Please!"

"End this, Castiel! The tablet is too important. Destroy these distractions and be done with it!"

* * *

Castiel stared blankly down. What was wrong with Dean's face? Why was it bleeding and swollen? Who had done that to his friend?

He was shocked when his own hand swept across his vision and cracked the bone under Dean's eyelid. Even more surprising was the cold feel of celestial wrought steel between his fingers. Was he going to kill Dean? Why would he be doing that?

* * *

"Kill him!"

"N-No."

* * *

The blade dropped to the forest floor. Castiel saw the parchment his friend had been trying to give him sitting nearby. He picked it up.

* * *

"I _order_ you to—"

* * *

Sam limped into view, his injury forcing him to lean heavily on Hagrid, just in time to hear the angel utter, " _Kah nuh ahm dar_."

Castiel staggered. From under his sleeves his veins were suffused by a white glow. His irises took on the bright blue sheen once again as shadows of great wings were cast upon the trees.

* * *

An explosion of light burst through Naomi's office. She let out a cry of pain, the brightness searing into the eyes of even her celestial form. Had she been wearing a vessel on Earth, those eyes would have burned from their sockets.

When it faded, she was alone.

"Castiel," Naomi called, desperately. "Castiel!"

* * *

After several seconds it was done. Castiel looked up at the Winchesters, a clarity to his thoughts that hadn't been present ever since his return from Purgatory. He reached out, inwardly wincing when Dean started to pull away, and healed his human friend from the beating he himself had inflicted. "I'm so sorry, Dean," Castiel said sorrowfully.

"What the hell just happened?" demanded the hunter.

Castiel opened his mouth to explain everything, from how he'd been rescued and Naomi and the chair, and was arrested by a convulsion from his vessel. Puzzled, the angel put his palms on his abdomen, searching for the source. "I—"

"Cass!" Dean cried out as the angel gave a wet, bloody cough and collapsed onto his back.

Hagrid pushed the hunter out of the way and gently gathered up Castiel. "I'll get him back t'the castle. But how're the two of ye going t'—"

"We'll be fine," Sam insisted. "Just go, quick!" At Hagrid's reticence, the younger brother added a desperate, " _Please_."

The man's tone effectively silenced Hagrid's objections. With a speed belied by his size, the half-giant ran through the trees, the enormity of his strides rapidly eating up the distance to the castle.

The brothers began to follow, but came to a startled halt when a new voice said, "That was a pedigree bitch, you know."

Despite the shards of bone grating together in his ribs, Sam swiftly withdrew the demon-killing knife from his robes. "Crowley."

"Hello, boys." The King of Hell affected a mournful mien. "I'm quite depressed at the mo'. I've lost my favorite chew toy. You're less than a kilometer away from the witch factory, which just unburies a whole host of forgotten childhood disturbances. And now you've killed one of my pets. It makes one wonder what you could _possibly_ be up to."

"None of your business," Dean growled.

Crowley gave the Winchesters a small smile. "Really. Why do I not believe you?"

A wave of the demon's hand had the brothers pinned several feet above the ground against rough bark. Another twist to his wrist and they were choking. "You see," Crowley continued, his hands stuffed into his pockets, "my little birdies told me that the world's cutest Prophet was in Hogsmeade not so long ago, which was, coincidentally, where I had stashed Lucifer's favorite whore. Care to elaborate on all of these coincidences?"

"Eat me," Dean managed to choke out.

"Maybe later, darling. In the meanti—eh?"

They all heard it: the thunder of galloping hooves striking wood and dirt, coming closer and slowing. For one wild moment Dean thought the unicorn from earlier might be coming to the rescue of some virtuous men (despite all his own personality traits that contradicted the traditional meaning of "virtue"). It wasn't much more surprising when the Hogwarts herd of _thestrals_ emerged from the shadows.

Even Crowley was taken aback by the creatures' suddenly appearance. He stepped away from the advancing equines only to trip over the corpse of his beloved dog. The thestrals, drawn by the enticing combination of sulfur and blood, immediately advanced and began to both feast on the remains and lick Crowley dry.

With the loss of the demon's concentration, Sam and Dean dropped to the ground. They wasted no time in fleeing the scene.

The King's outraged cries followed them into the brush. "Think that'll hold him for long?" panted Dean.

"Not long enough," Sam replied.

They skid to a halt when a woman in a grey pantsuit abruptly appeared in front of them. "Get out of the way!" Dean yelled.

"You're going the wrong direction," she said. The stilted speech and stern countenance all spoke "angel".

"Then point us in the right one or _move_ ," Sam demanded.

She sighed and took a few steps closer. "I was trying to save him. In hindsight, I went about it the wrong way. Now Castiel is dying."

"Naomi," Dean snarled.

The small smile she bestowed upon the Winchesters was almost sorrowful. "Yes. When you go to St. Mungo's, be certain to tell the healers he is an angel of the Lord. If you do not, their methods will worsen his condition."

"You gotta lot to answer for, bitch."

"More than you could possibly know."

Before either brother could demand further explanations Naomi's hands shot out and touched their foreheads. A moment later they were standing amidst rickety wooden chairs surrounded by pristine white walls. They were obviously somewhere magical; nowhere else would there be a phlegmatic man with an elephant trunk resignedly perusing an outdated magazine.

Dean shoved his way in front of the reception line, dislodging a woman whose every other word was an unassociated profanity. "Excuse _shit_ , sir!" she cried.

"Guy in a trench coat," Dean said hurriedly. "Yea big, blue eyes, probably with a big fucking dude?"

The bored looking receptionist behind the glass pointed down the nearest hallway. "First floor. Emergency."

Sam pulled his brother from the window, jostling the same woman ("Well _bitch_ I _fuck_ never!"). They jammed themselves into the lift and ascended. "I hope they haven't tried anything yet," the younger brother said worriedly.

Dean sighed. "I just hope Cass didn't just volunteer himself for something that'll get him killed."

* * *

 **Acknowledgement** : Some lines of dialogue are taken directly from the episode "Goodbye, Stranger" (SPN 8.17).

 **Author's Note** : It's one of those continuity things with the Hellhounds, like I can't tell the consistent rules by reading the wiki or watching old episodes or whatever. So I just arbitrarily decided that only people who've heard them before can hear them still, thus why Sam can't hear the doggies.


	13. Revelations

(7/18/2019) Dun dun duuuuuuun! I actually got another chapter in! Yay!

Thank you **BlewMew24** , **Bookworm-soul** , **Sailor Dragonball 87** , **ngregory763** , Mystery Guest, and **Noxvae** for the reviews! And all you favoriters and followers get angel feathers!

* * *

Castiel was just being rolled away upon a gurney when the Winchesters arrived at the end of the corridor. Rather than the austere white found in standard, non-magic hospitals, healers at St. Mungo's wore robes in slight variations of lime green. Sam used his greater stride to catch up to the huddle of wizards and yanked on the arm of the most officious looking one. "He's an angel," he shouted over the din. "Make sure you use the right spells!"

The healer gave him a harrumph and sputtered, "Of -Of course we knew he was an angel! We here at St. Mungo's are quite observant, you know." Contrary to his statement, however, the healer immediately retracted much of the spellwork and potion brewing he'd asked for only a minute prior and gave his subordinates a completely new set of instructions.

Sam and Dean watched worriedly as their friend disappeared behind a set of curtains. It was a haunting callback to the last time they'd been in an emergency setting: Bobby bleeding from a hole in his head while Dick Roman taunted them from his limo. This time wouldn't have the same outcome. It _couldn't_.

The brothers became immersed in their maudlin musings, and therefore nearly leapt from their skin when a woman's voice came up behind them and asked, "Sam and Dean Winchester?"

They turned and found a slightly portly, red-haired woman smiling kindly at them. "I'm Molly Weasley."

"Oh!" Sam exclaimed. "Ron's mom. It's nice to meet you."

Handshakes were exchanged. "Likewise. Are… Are you here about Arthur?"

Sam and Dean exchanged puzzled glances. "Uh, no," the latter said apologetically. "Our friend got hurt."

"Oh, how terrible! It must be the night for such things."

"Is your husband okay?" gently asked Sam.

"He… He will be," Molly stated, her definitive tone only slightly marred by doubt.

"What happened?"

The Weasley matriarch peered about at the busy emergency ward before gesturing the pair to lean in closely. "Arthur was handling something for the Order," she whispered. "Harry was good enough to warn us of an attack."

"Wait," Sam said quietly, "how could Harry have known?"

"I'm not quite certain. But thank goodness he did! I can't imagine what might have happened if Arthur hadn't been found in time."

From behind the woman, a kindly young healer approached. "Mrs. Weasley?"

"Yes?"

"Could we speak for a moment?"

"Of course." Molly turned and gave both men pats on the cheek. "I'm quite certain your friend will be all right. Come see us later, won't you?"

"You got it," Sam replied.

Molly followed the healer, leaving the brothers to stand restlessly in the waiting room. "I wonder where Hagrid went," Sam finally speculated.

"To fetch me, of course," Dumbledore said from behind the pair.

Both men started slightly, but were relieved to see the Headmaster. A wizard so accomplished could be vital in seeing their friend survive whatever had happened. "Can you help?" Dean pleaded.

"Unfortunately, no," Dumbledore replied gently, "but we have long been associates with an organization with far greater resources. Their scope extends beyond the wizarding world, thankfully, and I believe they can help."

"Well, great. Where are they?"

The older gentleman gestured another man forward. He was stocky and tall, his eyes and hair both the same dark shade, and the posh English accent that fell from his lips only heightened the Winchesters' instantaneous dislike for the man. "I've brought with me the proper ingredients to keep an angel healthy, insofar as our research has been able to prove." Upon seeing Dean's scowl, the newcomer added, "Where are my manners? Arthur Ketch, British Men of Letters."

Dean glanced down at the proffered hand without changing his expression. Sam, however, engaged the gesture and introduced himself and his brother. "We've been, um, using the Lebanon Bunker."

"Because we got a right to it," Dean growled.

"Of course, of course," Ketch said amiably. "Although I'm a little surprised at the… well, the _state_ of Henry Winchester's grandsons, it is nevertheless your legacy."

Dean immediately bristled at the insinuation, but before he could voice the profanity he'd brewed Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Arthur here has been our liaison for quite some time now. I think it's best he go to assist the healers with your friend."

"You're a wizard?" Sam asked curiously.

"A squib, actually," Ketch replied. The careful, flat way he stated the infamously debilitating condition did not go unnoticed. "While I cannot cast spells or brew potions, I can interact with the wizarding world without coming up against the barriers placed there for Muggles. Now, if you'll excuse me."

The brothers watched the Man of Letters enter the curtained off portion of the emergency area, a black satchel in hand. "You trust him?" Dean asked Dumbledore, his own distrust apparent.

"To accomplish this task, yes," the headmaster replied. "Perhaps I could offer somewhere nearby for the pair of you to get some rest? It would do your friend no favors if you were too exhausted to offer him aide."

Assuming that the wizard wished to set them up in a motel, the brothers agreed. But when he pulled a slip of parchment out and bade them to memorize the phrase on it ("The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London") their apprehension rose. Once Dumbledore was assured of their compliance, he asked, "Have you gotten the hang of apparition yet, Professor Winchester?"

The fact that both McGonagall and Flitwick had described "splinching" in excruciating detail had been deterrent enough for Sam to put off learning the teleportation technique until he was more knowledgeable about magic. "Uh, no, sorry."

"Ah, well, then I suppose some side-along apparition is in order. If you would, please, grasp my hand?"

Feeling rather foolish, the Winchesters each took ahold of one of Dumbledore's hands. Whatever embarrassment they might have harbored was immediately swept away as they became preoccupied with the incredibly unpleasant physical reaction to apparating. It was if they were being squeezed through a tube, their insides brought together forcefully and uncomfortably, while at the same time still able to wiggle and draw breath. As harrowing as it was, however, it was brief. Within seconds the brothers were stumbling onto a dark sidewalk that ran along a row of closely built homes.

Dean let go of Dumbledore's hand to bend over at the waist. "I'm gonna throw up."

"It wasn't _too_ bad," Sam said thoughtfully.

Dumbledore nodded sagely. "It does take some getting used to. It might affect Mr. Winchester a bit more due to his Muggle status, I'm afraid."

"Fan-frigging-tastic," groaned the Muggle in question.

"Now! If you would, please, think about what I've just bade you to memorize…"

The Winchesters did so, and, much to their amazement, a house blossomed in between 11 and 13 Grimmauld Place. It shoved its neighbors aside in a manner that should have been startling for their inhabitants, but no clamor was raised. "Freaking magic," Dean muttered.

Number 12 Grimmauld Place was dark, worn, and generally appeared unkempt. In any other circumstances, the brothers would have assumed the place was abandoned. However, when they approached the door creaked open. A dark haired man gestured them forward, then placed a finger on his lips in a request for silence.

"Thanks for—what the…" Sam's graciousness went unheard; Dumbledore was gone. "Okay?"

"He does that," whispered the stranger. "Come in, quickly!"

Sam and Dean hurried in the door and watched the man carefully close it. Upon closer inspection they discovered haggard features that must have once been handsome, but were now sallow and creased. He led them down a hallway of age-blackened portraits (with heavy, moth-eaten curtains covering a particularly large one), up a narrow, gruesomely decorated staircase (Sam slapped Dean's hand down when the latter attempted to poke one of the severed heads), and into a dimly lit bedroom that contained two twin beds. "Apologies for all that."

"No worries," Sam replied.

"I'm Sirius Black," the wizard said stiffly. He paused expectantly, but when the brothers only reacted with bemusement Sirius continued speaking in a far more affable manner. "I'm… Harry's godfather."

"Oh! Well, nice to meet you." Sam shook his hand.

"Likewise," Dean added and repeated the greeting.

"Welcome to my family home." Sirius' tone was surprisingly bitter. "Harry and the Weasley family are in the dining room waiting for word on Arthur, but Dumbledore thought you two might want a bit of rest?"

After their ill-fated trek through the Forbidden Forest, an encounter with a pack of Hellhounds, and their worry over Castiel's collapse, the Winchesters were exhausted. However, hearing that there were students (nearly friends) downstairs worrying galvanized them. "We just saw Molly," Dean explained. "Is it okay we go tell them that there's no bad news?"

Sirius blinked at the request. "What's the old adage? 'No news is good news'? I suppose anything to bring their spirits up would be good at this point. Just be careful down the hallway."

Both brothers fully intended on following directions, but when Dean decided to stare down a portrait giving him a particularly venomous look he accidentally knocked over a dusty umbrella stand that was, oddly, shaped like a monster's lower leg. The container and its contents spilled noisily onto the floor, prompting all of the disgruntled pictures to begin shouting and the mysterious curtains to fly open.

Sirius gave a long-suffering sigh as the desiccated woman painted on the canvas began to screech directly at him. "BLOOD TRAITOR! ABOMINATION!" Her hands stiffened into claws, the sharpened nails at each end brandished towards the wizard. "HOW DARE YOU BRING MORE FILTH INTO THE HOME OF MY ANCESTORS?"

Over the continued clamor, Dean shouted, "Sorry!"

"It's not the first time," Sirius said loudly. "That's my mother. She was a tremendous _bitch_." He grabbed one curtain and began trying to push it closed. Chagrined, Dean did the same for the opposite side, becoming deeply surprised at how difficult the normally mundane task was, but when Sam moved forward to help all of the portraits fell suddenly silent.

" _You_ ," whispered the Black matriarch, her hands now placed on her breast. "The vessel. _His_ vessel."

Anger and desperation, echoes of his horrifying destiny barely averted, twisted Sam's face. "No," he snarled. "Not anymore. Not _ever_."

His protestations went unheard. The entire Black pantheon began murmuring reverently at Sam, a few reaching forward as if they could break their two-dimensional prisons to touch him. Sirius peered at Sam, his suspicions slowly transforming into realization. "You're…"

"Not now," Dean growled.

The new voice had Sirius' mother whipping her head towards the elder Winchester. A sneer curled her wrinkled lips. "The _Righteous Man_. Pathetic! Dirty! FREAK! _Unworthy_ to be in the Holy Vessel's presence! YOU _DARE_ BRING YOUR ABOMINABLE PERSON INTO MY HOME?"

Depreciations and screaming followed, along with loud, worshipful shouts, directed at one or the other of the Winchesters. After shaking off their bewilderment, all three living men grabbed sections of the heavy curtains and, with great effort, finally managed to get them closed. Without their ringleader the remaining portraits quieted, though their eyes remained fixated with either loathing or awe, depending.

Disoriented by the exertion, none of them noticed the wide-eyed children staring from the top of the basement stairs. Dean straightened first and nearly leapt from his skin when he spotted their audience. "Uh, hey," he said quietly.

Before any of them could raise their inquiries, Sirius pushed both Sam and Dean towards the stairwell. It was the closest either had physically been to the man and the alcoholic fumes wafting from his breath and his clothes was noteworthy. The brothers lifted their eyebrows but deigned to comment.

Once at the bottom, Fred opened a heavy wooden door into a cavernous dining area lined with stone and lit by candles. Sirius sealed the entrance with his wand before demanding, "You two are the vessels? _The_ vessels?"

" _Were_ ," Dean corrected scathingly.

"How do you know about that?" Sam demanded. Out do the corner of his eye he saw Harry and Ron exchange worried glances.

"It's an old wizarding legend," Sirius explained, "saying that the Morningstar's victory over the General of Light would herald the ascendency of pure-blooded wizard-kind. Really wasn't told much before Voldemort ascended the first time all those years ago, sort of one of those silly fables Death Eaters told their children to help them sleep."

"Oi, George," Fred said thoughtfully. "Remember a few years back?"

"Ickle Ronniekins' first time at Hogwarts," George replied dreamily. Worried as they all were about their father's health the humor behind the nickname fell flat, but the second youngest Weasley reddened nonetheless.

Fred turned towards Sirius. "We overheard mum and dad talking after… well, you know," he said as he turned towards Harry.

"After we found Voldement sticking out of Professor Quirrell's noggin," Harry said.

"After you found _what_?" Dean asked incredulously.

Before Dean could get clarification, however, George plowed on. "We overheard mum and dad talking about the last time You-Know-Who was out and about. Like maybe something else was going on at the time?"

"Over in the states," Fred added. "Plenty of news in the paper about the Magical Congress having to deal with a lot of wild magic."

"About four, five years ago," Sirius clarified.

Sam and Dean exchanged unhappy glances. The timeline fit, unfortunately. Voldemort had apparently risen around the same time that Dean had gone to Hell and had, subsequently, broken the first seal on Lucifer's Cage. If it had lasted the entire school year, it also coincided with the _release_ of said archangel, with Sam having broken the _last_ seal on the Cage.

Sam realized that Harry and Ron were both looking sympathetically at himself and his brother. While neither had the inherent smarts of the absent Hermione, they were both privy to the details of the averted Apocalypse. Thankfully, neither of the boys appeared to be willing to share. In fact, Sam caught Harry looking guiltily around the room at the Weasleys before casting his gaze downwards, a gesture that couldn't mean anything good.

Dean cleared his throat. "Well, yeah, okay. Not really important now. What happened to your dad?"

The change in subject was clearly unwelcome. Along with Harry's continued furtive glances, the four Weasley children began looking back and forth from the fireplace to Sirius. Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, so, our friend, Castiel? He had an… an accident. We met your mom at the hospital and she said your dad's going to be okay."

The statement stretched Molly's hopeful, uncertain declaration regarding Arthur's health, but it relieved the children nonetheless. Even Harry looked marginally better. "Say," Sam began to ask, "how did you—"

Sam's query went unanswered as Mrs. Weasley swept into the room. "He's going to be all right," she said tiredly. "He's sleeping. We can all go and see him later. Bill's sitting with him now, he's going to take the morning off work."

"Dude," Dean said to his brother as the children and Sirius celebrated the news, "what time is it?"

"Ten past five."

"Damnit." Dean turned towards Molly who was currently smothering Harry in a hug. He put a hand on her shoulder and asked, "Did you hear anything about our friend, Cass?"

"No, sorry, dear," she answered sympathetically. "But once the children's trunks have arrived they can get their clothes changed and we can go back to St. Mungo's for a visit."

"Any way you could tell us how to get there?"

"I wish I could." Molly sighed. "I wanted to get here as quick as possible and apparated. Not only that, but I've only seen it from broomstick. Moody's far better at that than me." She reached up and patted both brothers on the cheek. "Now you have some breakfast, a quick nap, and you'll be good as new. The two of you look like you've been through quite a night!"

Seeing as how both brothers were swaying on their feet and their clothing was liberally spattered with dirt and detritus they couldn't disagree. "Thanks, Molly," Sam said.

"You're welcome, dear. Now be careful going back through the hallway. Goodness knows what sort of nonsense that dreadful woman will begin spouting next."

* * *

Sam had learned the Scouring Charm around Thanksgiving, but with the house elves around he'd never really used it. It worked well enough to get the worse of the filth from their clothes at least enough to make them presentable. Or so they thought. If the look Arthur Ketch was giving them was anything to go by, they fell far short.

Immaculate in his tailored black suit, the British Man of Letters sat primly at the Black dining table with the same wry expression he'd had back at St. Mungo's. "I trust you got some rest," he stated.

They'd been lured downstairs (past the hall of admiring or disdainful portraits, depending on the brother) by the smell of bacon frying. Dean's stomach had the upper hand at this point, and no accented asshole was going to block him from that greasy goodness. He charged straight past the table into the kitchen without acknowledging Ketch.

Sam sighed. "Yes, a couple of hours," he replied. "How's Cass?"

"Your halo will live," Ketch said. "What on Earth could have possessed you to hunt a Hellhound?"

"None of your beeswax," Dean snapped through a mouthful of bacon and bread. He'd emerged from the kitchen with a platter stacked with sandwiches. Once close enough, he placed them reverently on the table.

Thumps from the staircase signaled the impending arrival of the house's teenaged inhabitants. When the group arrived they waited carefully for the door to shut before indulging in food and lively conversation. Ketch was an island of stillness amidst the bustle, his amusement rising every time one of the children called out to either Professor or Mr. Winchester.

Sirius was unable to leave the house (an anomaly the man promised to clarify upon their return), depriving them of an experienced wizard to serve as an escort, but when the Winchesters, the British Man of Letters, and the slew of Hogwarts students emerged from the Black home a young woman across the street gave them all a jaunty wave. The pinkness of her hair wasn't exactly subtle for a society that treasured privacy. Yet it was her companion who was drawing the most glances.

He was of Dean's height, stocky, wearing a thick overcoat against the weather and a bowler hat set low over his face. From what could be seen of his rather angular features, a good deal of scarring marred his skin. An elaborate walking stick completed the ensemble. Despite his frightening mien he reminded the brothers of Bobby; affable, protective, and dangerous. The difference was that Bobby Singer's paranoia was carefully crafted into his actions; this man's was laid bare. He glowered suspiciously at the adults accompanying the children, his hand tightening in his coat pocket around what was hopefully his wand.

"Um, Professor Winchester, Mr. Winchester," Harry said, uncomfortable with the staring contest that had developed. "This is Alastor Moody. He's a _friend_."

"Pleasure, I'm sure," Moody said. His gaze swiveled over to Ketch. "Arthur."

"Alastor."

"Is there anyone here you _don't_ know?" Dean asked caustically.

"Certainly," Ketch replied. "For instance," he continued as he pointed to random pedestrians, "I don't know him, or him, or her."

"Can we get going now?" Moody growled. Without waiting for an answer, the man turned and began walking.

The pink-haired woman caught up to Sam as they traveled. "Wotcher!" she greeted cheerfully. "Nymphadora Tonks. Do me a favor and just refer to me as 'Tonks.'"

"Why?" Sam wondered.

"Because my parents thought Nymphadora was a brilliant idea for a name."

"Got me there. So what's your relationship to the kids?"

"Me and Moody there, we're Aurors." Quieter, she added, "And part of the Order, naturally."

Sam nodded. "Aurors… you guys are sort of the wizard police, right?"

Tonks nodded. "We mostly deal with the more serious stuff, dark wizards and the like. There are other departments that deal with the littler things. Arthur, for instance, is in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office."

"Misuse of Muggle Artifacts?"

"People charming public toilets and such. Muggle baiting, we call it. Mostly harmless stuff, but once in a while things get a bit dangerous. One time there was this cow—"

"Quiet back there!" barked Moody from the head of their little parade. "Be on alert. Never know what might be lurking." He gave a young man in a suit and tie an unwarranted glare, one vicious enough to make the stranger cross the street.

"Aye," Tonks called back. In a softer tone, she added, "Bloody paranoid that one."

Sam chuckled a bit, but followed orders. Other than the occasional comment or query about some uniquely British things ("Sam, dude, the pub's open _now_. It's freaking two in the afternoon!"), they remained silent until reaching the Underground. As the Winchesters' only train experience since reaching Great Britain had been the Platform 9 3/4 incident, the brothers expected to have to seek out another secret passageway. Instead, Moody handed out a blue card to each of them. "You lose it, you figure your own way home," he warned.

"You touch it there," Harry explained as they approached the gate. He pointed to a yellow circle on the automated barriers.

After eyeing about, Moody demonstrated the gesture with great aplomb, going so far as to flourish the card when he was finished. The rest of them followed, albeit in a far more normal manner.

They disembarked somewhere in the middle of London. Sam was surprised at the location; with the wizard's xenophobia regarding most things Muggle he would have figured St. Mungo's to be located in some isolated area. An abandoned warehouse, perhaps. Instead, they were forced to contend with the crush of holiday shoppers. If it hadn't been for Sam's height and the rather wide berth people were giving Moody the group would have been easily separated.

Their stopping point was a department store whose owners had apparently decided to begin refurbishment during the eighties (if the shoulder pads and clashing colors were anything to go by) and had never finished. Most of the group watched, bemused, as Tonks bent over to whisper at one of the mannequins. She then proceeded to take Molly and Ginny's arms and step directly into the glass.

The rest of the Weasleys followed, as well as Sam and Ketch. Harry and Dean, however, stared doubtfully at the glass. "C'mon," Moody growled as he rapped them both smartly on the back of their legs with his cane.

"Ow! What the—" Dean's profanity cut short as he inadvertently hopped forward. Instead of smashing into the window, however, he found himself back in the waiting room of the wizarding hospital.

"Nice of you to join us," Ketch said wryly. Dean gave him the finger. "Charming. Come along then. Both Mr. Weasley and your halo are on the first floor, Dai Llewelyn ward."

The Man of Letters took the lead and led them down a portrait-lined hallway, up one flight of stairs, and down the "Creature-Induced Injuries" corridor. He stopped at the second door on the right. "After you, gentlemen."

While the Weasley family, Harry, and the pair of Aurors had a short discussion, Sam and Dean entered the room. It was relatively small and dimly lit, only one tall, narrow window set on the far wall. Four patients took up the room, Castiel, Arthur (who waved cheerfully from his spot nearest the light), and another wizard and witch, leaving a good number of empty beds. The brothers headed immediately towards their friend.

"Cass?" Dean tentatively asked as they approached. The angel was lying on his side. He'd been dressed in what appeared to be scrubs and a bandage was wrapped around his neck. "It's us, Cass."

Castiel turned around and blinked tired eyes at the three men around his bed. "Hello."

"How you feeling?" Sam asked.

"Better. I think." The angel looked up at Ketch. "Thank you." At Dean's lifted eyebrows, Cass explained, "He brought some items that were instrumental in my recovery."

"You're welcome," Ketch said simply.

"So what happened?" Sam wondered.

Castiel sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "I suppose I have undertaken the trials. It is causing damage to my vessel."

"What kind of damage?"

"Possibly catastrophic."

"Then you need to stop," Dean stated firmly. "We'll go find another Hellhound, figure something else out."

Castiel shook his head. "No. I will not allow you to put yourselves in danger for something that will most likely kill you."

"What about you, then?" Dean's voice began to rise. "We can't just be letting you die either!"

"I won't."

"Come again?"

"I won't die."

"Right away," added Ketch.

Dean turned towards the man. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Castiel sighed, "that in order to survive, my vessel is eating up my Grace. At the end of the trials there will be nothing left."

Sam's eyes widened. "But that means—"

"Yes." The angel looked down at his hands. "At the end of these trials I will be _human_."

* * *

 **Author's Note** : I had to look up how the London Underground works. I still don't know if I got it right!


	14. All I Want for Christmas

(8/6/2019) Look! Look! I did an update in less than two weeks! -ish. The next one may not be so prompt with school starting again. Time to whip them whipper snappers into shape!

Thank you * _Menatron the Angel of Ideas_ *", Mystery Guest Miles, **Sailor Dragonball 87** , **SurrealCrazy, Tsuki Hanabira,** and **ngregory763** for the reviews! SurrealCrazy: I'll consider the suggestion (it's not a bad one), and Tsuki Hanabira: Mmmmmaybe? Probably not, but it's an interesting idea.

* * *

"Human," Dean repeated. "Like the way you were after you freaking carved a banishing sigil on your chest."

"Impressive," Ketch murmured, his eyebrows raised in appreciation. Dean threw him a glower.

"More or less," Castiel said. "When… _if_ it happens, I will require help. I don't think God will be granting me anymore favors."

"Yeah, Cass," Sam told him softly. "Anything you need."

"Thank you."

A moment of silence passed as the Winchesters and their angelic friend processed this development or wracked their brains for some way around it. They were rudely interrupted by Ketch's bored sigh. "Well, if you'll excuse me gentlemen, I have far more pressing matters to attend to. Cheers."

The Man of Letters turned on his heel and began to leave. Remembering that the man had claimed to be a squib, not a Muggle, had Dean forming a query. "One sec," he called as he hustled over to join Ketch near the door. "Hey, you guys got more resources here, right?"

"Exceedingly so, yes."

"Can you look up something then?"

"I suppose."

Although Dean's trigger finger twitched at the man's haughty tone, he decided to follow through. "Sam's a wizard, you're a squib, but I'm a freaking Muggle. So why ain't I runnin' into all the anti-Muggle wards and all that crap?"

Ketch actually blinked, his confusion bleeding through for a mere moment. "I don't know. Something for the researchers to look into, I see. If they find anything, I'll let you know." Without further ado, Ketch left.

"And a 'good-fucking-bye' to you, too, dickwad," Dean muttered at the door. He turned to go back to Castiel's bed and was surprised to find himself crowded by Harry and the Weasley children. "Where you guys going?"

"We're not allowed to listen," Fred bitterly explained.

"Secret stuff, you know," George added.

"Dean, dear?" Molly called from her husband's bedside. "Would you mind joining us? And Sam, too, if your friend doesn't mind."

The brothers looked at Castiel. "Go," he said simply.

"So what's the scoop?" Dean asked as they approached Arthur Weasley's bedside.

"It's about what happened to Arthur," Moody growled quietly. "Attacked by a giant snake in the middle of the Ministry Headquarters. Not exactly easy _or_ subtle, if y'ask me."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam spotted what could have passed for an extraordinarily long earthworm wriggling its way through the shadows towards the bed. Whatever it was, the opposite end lay on the other side of the door. If the past several months had taught Sam anything, it was that the Weasley twins were almost unnaturally resourceful. He decided not to comment on what was undoubtedly some sort of listening device. "So you think the snake had some other purpose," Sam whispered.

"A scout, maybe," Moody replied. "Arthur here was just in the way."

"They couldn't find it anywhere afterwards," Tonks added.

"A vanishing snake ain't exactly the weirdest thing around you guys," Dean whispered wryly.

"Snakes and You-Know-Who are connected, Dean," Sam explained. "Apparently he could talk to them."

"What, like have a freaking conversation?"

"Yes," Moody affirmed. "Which means he's up to something, and whatever it is has to do with where _you_ were," he told Arthur.

"This isn't the time," the Weasley patriarch said sternly. "At least my presence prevented the thing from having a better look-see about the department."

"Could it have taken anything?" Sam asked.

"Doubtful. The area I was at… well, let's just say that it's not exactly easy to get further in without guidance."

"So Potter said he saw this all happen," Moody pondered.

"Yes," said Molly. "You know, Dumbledore seems almost to have been waiting for Harry to see something like this…"

"Yeah, well, there's something funny about the Potter kid, we all know that."

"That's not fair," Sam inserted. "It's not as if whatever's going on is his fault."

"Didn't say it to be cruel," Moody huffed. "Just statin' facts."

"Dumbledore seemed worried about Harry when I spoke to him this morning," whispered Mrs. Weasley.

"'Course he's worried," growled Moody. "The boy's seeing things from inside You-Know-Who's snake. Obviously, Potter doesn't realize what that means, but if You-Know-Who's possessing him then who knows what else he can do through the boy?"

The earthworm was retreating, Sam saw. "Look," he said firmly, "Harry's a _kid_. Whatever's going on _we_ need to be the ones taking care of it. He's got enough to worry about as it is."

"Of course, Sam dear," Molly said as she patted him on the arm. "But we need to make sure we understand all the possibilities."

"The boy is not possessed," Castiel called from his bed across the room. "I can tell."

Bewildered, Arthur asked Dean, "He can hear us?"

As most of the conversation had been held in a quiet tone (with two of the three other occupants of the ward being unknowns), it was a valid question. Not only that, but for all appearances Castiel appeared nonchalantly uninterested in anything other than the outdated issue of the Quibbler he was perusing. "Uh," Dean stammered as he fought to create a credible lie, "he's… uh…"

"Not human," Moody said, rolling the eye not covered by the bowler.

"How…?"

For the first time since they'd met, Alastor Moody shifted his hat so both eyes were visible. The left one was _alarming_. Electric blue, slightly overlarge, and encased in a bronze circle, it was now focused on Dean with an unnatural intensity. "Oh," the elder Winchester finally said.

Moody tapped the false eye directly on the wide, black pupil. "I can see through most anything with this, including stuff that thinks it can get away by hiding in human beings." His gaze narrowed. "Not a demon, _that_ I can see. What is it?"

"An angel," Castiel replied loudly as he turned a page. "Are these articles fiction? I do not believe I have ever heard of a 'crumple-horned snorkack'."

"Wait," Sam said, "you know about _demons_?"

Moody thumped his walking stick down and gave a harrumph. "Boy, I've been an auror since before you and your brother there were sucking on your mother's teat. You think I've survived this long without knowing all the dark things that're out there?"

Although Moody was putting forth a good argument, both of the Weasleys appeared baffled. "Perhaps this isn't the time," Arthur said cautiously. "I think we should be certain before we jump to any conclusions."

It was a vague agreement to do something, but it at least drew the uncomfortable discussion to a close. Curious, Dean asked, "What's wrong with the bite, by the way? I thought you guys could, you know, do the wand wavy thing and be all good."

"Um. Well. Blasted thing won't stay closed. Healers think the poison might be countering any spells they use."

"Have you tried just stitching it up?" Sam suggested.

"Stitching?" Arthur asked interestedly. "What's that?"

* * *

It was the week before Christmas and Sirius was delighted to have his house full to bursting with guests. While the Winchesters tried to refuse the offer to join them, they were no match for Mrs. Weasley's insistence. Two boys without a family to speak of alone at Christmastime? Absolutely blasphemy in Molly's book. Sam and Dean, Castiel, and Kevin would all be there for the holiday, no matter what. They agreed, and the fact that she'd had her wand in hand at the time she made her ultimatum really had no bearing on their decision (at least that's what Dean told himself).

Kevin was the one who took the most convincing, as he was on the verge of translating the second trial. Dean promised him a surprise, however, and with absolutely no clue as to what that might be, Kevin's inquisitive nature eventually won through.

Because the gathering now included nearly a dozen people (five of the Weasleys, possibly six if this "Percy" decided to show, the two Winchesters, Kevin Tran, maybe Hermione Granger, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black) and an angel (Castiel having discharged himself from St. Mungo's by flying to Hogwarts the moment the Healers' backs were turned), the Black family table would be stuffed to capacity.

Decorations were in order, and with Sirius' house-elf mysteriously absent it fell to the current residents to make the Black estate festive. In the days leading to Christmas Eve all of the guests of 12 Grimmauld Drive worked to clean and brighten the gloomy abode. Cobwebs were swept, dust removed, and various clingy pests were magically evicted. One memorable afternoon was spent rooting out a small colony of Bundimuns who were discovered after Kevin, thinking it was a patch of mold, sprayed a member with Borax.

They managed to convince the Prophet not to touch the tablet until after Christmas Day by threatening to withhold the surprise. As a result, the young man ended up socializing with the other household guests close to his age: the Weasley twins.

The first time Dean turned into a giant canary he blamed it on Sam misfiring a spell. When the younger brother could breathe again, he vehemently denied it. The second time, however, Dean caught Kevin and George high-fiving out of the corner of his currently beady black eye.

A minor prank war ensued. Dean served Kevin a glue-covered butterbeer. George snuck what he called a Fainting Fancy into Sam's salad. Sam switched several of Fred and George's underpants and refused to say whose was whose. Fred shrank Sam's shoes just small enough to make them pinch. Unfortunately, Dean's bucket balanced over a door ended up on Sirius and the livid adult wizard effectively ended the minor skirmishes in his home.

There was a perceptible change in the only actual Black family member residing in the Black ancestral home. He sang, he laughed, he even entertained a spirited discussion over whether "Father Christmas" or "Santa Claus" was the appropriate title. In Sam's eyes, Sirius Black shed ten years of misery during those days and was happy to see the man come out of his shell. Dean, however, was more attuned to how Sirius' cheerful demeanor slackened when he thought no one was looking. When the holidays were over and school began again, no doubt Sirius would revert to his drunken, maudlin state.

A shady character named Mundungus Fletcher arrived Christmas Eve with an enormous tree. He worked it out of his coat with a bare minimum of fuss and proceeded to let loose a barrage of _fairies_ (fortunately not the full-sized, controlled-by-a-mystic-book sort) onto the branches. Sam left for several hours on the same day to arrange Kevin's surprise, which left the Prophet in Dean's indelicate hands. Dean, Sirius, Kevin, and the Weasley twins ended up drunk on ale and butterbeer and _nearly_ convinced Castiel to act as the proverbial angelic tree topper.

Except for Christmas Eve, Castiel spent his time making sure Meg didn't kill anyone. She complained about being left out and bored, but as they still hadn't broken the mystery of Hogwarts' ubiquitous devil's trap the demon was stuck. He managed to entertain her by taking her to some of the more obscure landmarks (including the defunct Chamber of Secrets and its putrid resident), and by being charmingly confused by her innuendos. It was rather disturbing how the demon got under his skin; not in the irritating way, but in a way that warmed him up and made him smile. If the angel thought about it too hard he came to a disturbing conclusion, one that he decided to explore _after_.

Left to her own devices, Meg spent the holiday wandering the halls and terrifying the ghosts, the paintings, Mr. Filch and Mrs. Norris, and those few students and teachers who'd remained.

There weren't enough beds at the Black home to accommodate everyone, but the Winchesters insisted they were fine with the floor and the couch. Kevin's portable room made for a third resting spot, and the Americans spent their Christmas Eve sleeping in a twinkling room smelling wonderfully of pine.

Kevin's suitcase popping open woke Sam and Dean the next morning. "I got presents!" he announced happily from the top of his ladder.

Sam put down his wand and Dean his gun. "Oh," Sam said blearily. There were, in fact, packages near both of the brothers' feet, cheerfully wrapped. "Wow."

"Holy crap," Dean said, astonished. "Who the hell gave us presents?"

"One's from Mrs. Weasley, at least," Kevin explained as he stepped out of his suitcase. Over his normal shirt and jeans was a hand-knit sweater with an open book stitched onto the front. In his hands was a box full of what looked like mini-pies. Much to Dean's delight, a similar package was in both his and his brother's piles.

"They showed up in the middle of the night," Castiel explained. He'd shed his trench coat for a white sweater with wings on the front. "House-elves dressed in Christmas livery."

"Oh, man," Sam groaned. "I didn't get anybody anything."

"Yes. You and your brother tend to skip this holiday. I assume it's because you have no extended family and it would be awkward to put on festivities with just yourselves for company."

"Thanks, Cass," Dean said flatly through a mouthful of mincemeat.

" _Seize today, not tomorrow!_ ," chirruped a book in Kevin's hands. "Hermione got this for me," he said. "It's some kind of planner."

The Hogwarts instructors looked through their piles and discovered presents from quite a number of the children in the house. Fred and George had given Kevin and the Winchesters vouchers for future inventions. Hermione had given Castiel a striped silk tie. Dean found a large box of various wizarding sweets, while Sam immediately began poring through his new copy of _Dark Arts: A Legal Compendium_.

While Kevin and Dean began a Bernie Bott's contest similar to the one the brothers had had on the Hogwart's Express, Sam gave Castiel a nod. He vanished and reappeared a few minutes later with Kevin's surprise in tow.

"Mom?" Kevin gasped.

"Oh, Kevin!" Linda Tran cried.

Kevin was apologizing profusely for sending his mother away while she wept and forgave him, creating an intimate scene the others were uncomfortable intruding upon. They snuck out of the living room, tiptoed through the portrait hallway (whose inhabitants did their best to shrink away from the angel in their midst), and went down the basement stairs to the dining room.

There they found a second awkward situation. Molly was weeping into Lupin's shoulder, an unopened box on the table. When Dean curiously checked the tag, it read: "To: Percy, Love: Mum, Dad, Your brothers and sister." "Guess he's not comin' to lunch."

Molly, who had begun to calm down, burst into a fresh bout of sobs. "Uh," Dean managed to stammer after getting Remus' glare, "I'll go see if I can get breakfast started."

As his brother retreated into the kitchen, Sam sat down. "Did he say anything?" he asked.

"No," Remus replied stiffly. "Didn't even bother to ask about his father."

"What's his deal, anyways?"

The other man sighed. "Percy has, unfortunately, taken the Ministry's ignorant stance regarding You-Know-Who's return and disparages his family's close association with Harry."

"Sounds like a dick. But he'll come around."

Molly leaned out of Lupin's arms. "How can you be sure?"

Sam gave her a gentle smile. "I did. Trust me, when he realizes his mistake he'll be back."

After dabbing the corners of her eyes with her apron, Molly stood up and gave Sam and hug. "Thank you." She gave one more sniff. "Does Dean know how to cook?"

"You'd be surprised."

Unconvinced, Molly marched herself to the kitchen. Remus sighed. "It's just like before, when You-Know-Who first came into power. Families on either side of the aisle, both certain their point of view is correct."

"But his is wrong," Castiel said. "Does Percy not understand the danger?"

"If he believed it, he might. But alas…" Lupin shrugged.

A series of quiet thumps heralded the arrival of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. The children called out, "Hello!" and, "Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas," Sam said. After being elbowed in the stomach, Castiel repeated the phrase. "What's in the box?"

"A present for Kreacher," Hermione replied.

"Sirius' house-elf," Harry explained.

"Oh," Sam said. "Can I come? I haven't met him yet."

"Yes, of course!" beamed Hermione.

Harry and Ron, however, were apprehensive. "Just watch your legs, mate," the latter warned. "Wouldn't put it past him to stab you in the knee."

As all of Sam's experience with house-elves had been with Hogwarts' cheerful army, he was taken aback at the warning. Regardless, he followed the trio into the kitchen where Dean was showing Molly how Muggles fried bacon sans wand. They wandered to a dark corner and to a large, worn door opposite the pantry. Ron gave it an experimental knock. "He must be sneaking around upstairs," the boy surmised as he pulled on the handle. "Urgh."

Whereas the house-elves at Hogwarts, the oddball Dobby included, tended to look neat, clean, and tidy, Kreacher was not. He wasn't in residence, but the filth he slept in gave off the putrid stink of rot, mold, and some new nastiness that Sam suspected was unwashed house-elf. Photos of some of the same people who lined the entrance hallway were set here and there. Contrasting the rest of the cabinet, these were polished, carefully arranged, and even repaired where necessary.

Hermione placed her package on the top of the largest pile of rags. "I think I'll just leave his present here," she said before closing the door quietly. "He'll find it later, that'll be fine…"

"Come to think of it," said Sirius, emerging from the pantry from the opposite side carrying a large turkey, "has anyone actually seen Kreacher lately?"

It turned out Sirius' house-elf hadn't been seen since the first unexpected arrival of Harry and the Weasleys. The older wizard insisted Kreacher couldn't have left due to his connection to the house, but Harry contradicted his assumption by relating his encounters with Dobby who, at the time, had been tied to the Malfoy family.

"Malfoy?" Sam echoed. "As in Draco?"

"Yes," Sirius said darkly. "His father was a Death Eater. Not surprised his house-elf was off."

Recalling the extreme deference Dobby had bestowed upon Sam and his brother, as well as the worshipfulness with which the house-elf spoke of Harry, "off" was putting it mildly. Inwardly, Sam wondered if there was some sort of brain injury involved. "Well, I'm sure Kreacher will show up sooner or later."

"Long as he's not hiding upstairs snogging one of my mother's old bloomers the barmy old thing can stay away."

The boys guffawed, but Hermione looked offended. Not knowing which side to take, Sam merely shrugged and went to help Dean and Molly serve breakfast.

After a light meal the guests of 12 Grimmauld Place socialized or aided Molly, Linda, and Dean with preparing Christmas lunch. Sam managed to coax Sirius into telling him a bit of personal history, including his stint in Azkaban, by trading his own tale of growing up as John Winchester's son. Kevin used what he could recall from chemistry to give Fred and a George a few more ideas for their products. And Molly figured out a charm to help Linda fold enough dumplings for over a dozen houseguests.

They had lunch family-style, with everyone crowded around the table wherever they felt comfortable. Castiel made sure to find the most obscure corner possible; he had no wish to call attention to himself. Squished between Lupin and Moody, the angel was dismayed to discover food was starting to acquire _taste_. Of course, his celestially enhanced tongue still separated each molecule and transmitted the information as such, but at the very tail end of each bite… The turkey was moist. The dumplings complex. The pie sweet. It was a sign of his impending humanity and Castiel wasn't certain if he liked it or not.

The grand Christmas lunch was cleared in moments with wand-work. Molly packed a container for her husband and as soon as Mundungus arrived (in a car impossibly large on the inside) they traveled to St. Mungo's. Once there, Castiel was immediately waylaid by an indignant Healer who loudly chastised the angel for leaving without being discharged. Cass was dragged away for testing, bemused over his predicament.

They discovered Arthur Weasley up in bed, his bandages fresh, much to Molly's confusion. It turned out that Arthur and his healer had decided to take Sam's suggestion of stitches to heart. Unfortunately, the venom infecting Arthur's bite ate through the thread. He tried to hide his experiments with Muggle medicine from his wife to no avail. During Molly's increasingly louder demands for an explanation, her children slipped out of the room, fearful of being collateral damage. Dean was edging to the door as Molly finally snorted, "It sounds as though you've been trying to sew your skin back together, but even you, Arthur, wouldn't be that stupid."

"Well, I mean, Sam here brought it up and we thought—"

"Good luck," Dean said as he quickly patted his brother's shoulder and scurried to the door. Molly's, "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THAT'S THE GENERAL IDEA?" followed him.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were just down the hallway. "Where you guys off to?"

"To get some tea, Mr. Winchester," Hermione said.

Uncomfortable with the formality, the so-called Hogwarts consultant asked, "It's just Dean outside of class, okay?" The children nodded. "Think they got coffee?"

"Probably," Harry replied. "Coming?"

"Sure."

They headed towards a set of stairs and began to climb. Portraits of past Healers lined the walls, some of whom looked decidedly sinister. One chased them through painting after painting trying to tell Ron and Dean that their freckles signified a bad case of something called "spattergroit", a disease whose remedy involved reptilian evisceration and public nudity. Dean threatened to throw paint thinner on the Healer and the medieval gentleman retreated.

"Dumbass," Dean growled as they ascended. He came to an abrupt halt, however, at the next landing where a blonde, blue-eyed idiot was grinning stupidly at them from the window. "The hell?"

"Blimey!" Ron exclaimed.

"Professor Lockhart?" Hermione gasped.

The addled wizard, dressed absurdly in lilac-colored sleeping robes, pushed out of the double doors and promptly stood nose-to-nose with Dean. "Well, I never!"

The hunter's eyebrows lifted. "What?"

"I'm quite certain I told them not to allow anyone to enter the area who is handsomer than me!"

"Them?"

"Yes! Them! If I knew who they were I would say so."

Dean glanced helplessly around at his students. Harry and Ron were busy holding in snorts of laughter while Ginny and Hermione looked on reproachfully. "He was our second year Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," Hermione explained. "He… um…"

The girl's voice turned the man's attention away from Dean. He stepped away and pulled a worn peacock quill from his pocket, his face once more split with an idiotic grin. "Why, hello! I suppose you're here for my autograph? How many would you like? I can do joined-up writing now, you know!"

"He used to be famous," Harry whispered to Dean as the others fended off Lockhart's attempts to sign various parts of their clothing. "Wrote books, but it turned out he was a big fraud."

"Yeah?"

Harry nodded. "We found him out and, well… let's just say his plan to wipe our memories didn't go the way he thought it would."

"Sounds like a dick."

"Quite."

A Healer had arrived and was currently urging the children to follow them into the ward marked "Spell Damage." From what Dean could make out, this Lockhart fellow was one of the long-term patients. They were let into a locked ward, where the addled wizard immediately sat down amidst stacks of his own photographs and began rapidly putting his signature to them. "Well," the nurse said cheerfully, "I must finish giving out the Christmas presents, I'll leave you all to chat."

While Lockhart attempted to instruct the children to put the signed photos into envelopes (while casting sullen glances over the handsomer intruder), Dean looked around. There were few other patients here, but their bedsides had the look of a more permanent residency. It reminded the hunter uncomfortably of Castiel's stint in a mental ward after having absorbed Sam's Hell-induced insanity. At least here Dean didn't think he'd have to worry about a contingent of angels showing up.

Dean eyed the nurse as she dropped a small pile of items at a woman who barked and a swaying, tentacled plant at a man who was oblivious to his surroundings. When a stately elder witch and a familiar young man emerged from the back two beds, the Healer exclaimed, "Oh, Mrs. Longbottom, are you leaving already?"

The name Longbottom caught Harry's attention first, and by his furtive glances Dean guessed he was trying to avoid calling attention to their classmate. Ron, as usual, was blissfully unaware of Harry's intent and called out, "Neville!"

Ron and Hermione jumped up to cheerfully greet their fellow Gryffindor. Ginny followed close behind, but Harry was apprehensive. "Something up?" Dean asked.

The boy glanced past the witch and her grandson to the curtained area in the back of the ward. "It's nothing."

"You're a crappy liar, dude."

Neville was shrinking and reddening with every second that passed. The color deepened when Mrs. Longbottom scolded her grandson for being embarrassed of his parents. "My son and his wife," she proclaimed, "were tortured into insanity by You-Know-Who's followers."

Mrs. Longbottom expounded a bit on her son's and daughter-in-law's illustrious career as Aurors, but Dean heard little of it. A wraith of a woman had emerged from the back curtains, her hair wispy and white. She shuffled forward gingerly as if afraid to make a single sound, but when she saw she had Neville's attention, she began gesturing at him to come closer. The boy approached, his hand outstretched, and she dropped a used gum wrapper into his palm.

"Very nice, dear," Mrs. Longbottom said patronizingly. Neville, however, quietly thanked his mother. Pleased by her present, the woman then turned to go back to where she'd come from, humming a tuneless melody.

Once the Longbottoms had left, the children expressed their dismay. The only one who'd already known Neville's secret was Harry. "That's what Bellatrix Lestrange got sent to Azkaban for," he explained, "using the Cruciatus Curse on Neville's parents until they lost their minds."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Dean muttered. He peered thoughtfully at the curtains and made a mental plea.

The flapping of enormous wings signaled Castiel's abrupt arrival. Lockhart gave a squawk in protest. "Another one! Now this is just far too much. I demand these handsome figures be removed at once!"

Castiel cocked his head over at the former professor. "I can fix that."

"No, don't," Ron hissed. "Trust us, the world's better off this way."

"If you insist."

"C'mon," Dean urged as he took his friend's elbow. He pulled the angel to the back of the ward. "Can you see if you can do something for these two?"

Castiel nodded and disappeared behind the curtains. They all waited, breathless, while Lockhart continued to sign his photos and mutter about his good looks being overshadowed by two uninvited Americans. The angel emerged several minutes later and shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"Damn. Why not?"

"What was done to them damaged their very souls." Hermione let out a small, horrified gasp. "It's similar to what Sam endured. The only thing I could do for them now would be to grant them peace."

"No, just leave them be." Dean sighed. "Thanks, Cass."

The angel gave a furtive glance to the window on the exit. "I should go. Healer Thadwick keeps trying to poke his wand in places I do not think are necessary." A rush of feathers later and Castiel was gone.

"Poor Neville," Ginny murmured.

They said their goodbyes to Lockhart (who harrumphed at Dean and continued his work) and left the ward considerably more solemn than when they'd arrived. All of them remained silent as they descended the stairs, then feigned good cheer when it came to bid Arthur farewell. The Weasleys, Winchesters, Castiel, and their Auror escorts piled back into the suspiciously large car and headed back to Grimmauld Place.

Only when they got there, the door was ajar. Moody pushed forward to discover Sirius unconscious in the hallway. Linda was nowhere to be found.

And Kevin Tran, Prophet of the Lord, was gone.


End file.
